Changing Plans
by How-not-to-do-something
Summary: "So, they're desperate, willing to help, and they have giant robots as well. This will be interesting in the Chinese sense." Rated T for violence and some language.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello everyone, and welcome to my newest story. Before I start I need to explain a couple things.**

**Firstly, this story is a collaboration between myself, GeneralAllenWalker, and Jager1der1fics over on Archiveofourown, and is a rewrite of another fic originally co-written by AllenWalker and Hapless Anon over on Spacebattles; Upsetting Plans and Other Pastimes. Hapless Anon lost interest in writing it, but I rather liked where he was going, and with his permission and AllenWalker's help I made my own version. Reading that one isn't necessary to read this, but I won't claim I didn't take a heavy inspiration from it, so if something seems similar, whoops.**

**Second, and this is more for returning readers: this doesn't mean my other stories are abandoned. Personal reasons have kept me from updating for... a while... BUT now that things are sorted out I'll be dropping new chapters soon. This is more of a fun diversion than a serious effort, so don't fret please.**

**Now that the explanations over, obligatory disclaimer: I do not own Code Geass, Muv-Luv, or any other franchise or item I may or may not reference. No profit is being earned for the writing of this story. If you decide to steal this fic, please don't?**

**This is How-Not-To-Do-Something, and I bring you "Changing Plans."**

* * *

_"Echo Actual to Echo Five, status?"_

_"Status nominal, over."_

_"Echo Two, fuel status?"_

_"Echo Actual, we are at sixty percent. No contacts at this time."_

_"Copy, resume patrol."_

_"Roger Actual."_

_"Roger that Echo Actual. Christ this is boring."_

The headset clicked when he switched his mic off, letting out a groan as he leaned back in his seat. Below him the VBL scout truck jostled and rattled due to the rough stretch of dirt his map called a road, hitting bump after bump at a steady sixty kilometers per hour. He didn't mind too much however; this wasn't the first time he took a poor road, and the only way it would be the last was if the convoy came under attack.

Sparing a peek at his driver, Captain Matthias Bindl took note of the sergeant's intense boredom. Sighing under his breath, he shifted a stiff leg only to wince; at barely thirty years old he was way too young to feel decrepit, but thanks to a mass of scar tissue on his foot walking normally was almost impossible, making him hobble along like his grandfather. His handsome face wasn't wrinkled and his blond buzz cut didn't have a speck of gray, yet he practically needed a cane to get around. For the umpteenth time he cursed that stray bullet that hit him during his last battle, even as he thanked God he was only shot there. Much more fortunate than too many other good men.

Dismissing his petty complaints, Bindl went back to listening to the platoon's comm chatter and watching the APC in front of them, feeling the ineffectual air conditioning blowing on his thigh. Even with his flak jacket undone, he felt itchy and sweaty from the heavy burden, to say nothing about the grimy hair underneath his helmet. He attempted to lean on the door, but the intense sunlight emanating from the plexiglass window moved him quickly. His airy beige fatigues did nothing to help insulate against the unseasonably scorching heat.

_"My my the desert is lovely. I just love being in the middle of nowhere."_

_"You said it Four, what're we even doing out here?"_

_"Because Command said so, unless you want to freeze your balls off in Siberia playing with Russians."_

_"Colds better than this goddamn heat. You can always put more layers on."_

_"Take it you never got frostbite newbie?"_

_"Least he still has his dick in one piece Five._" Laughter filled his headset, along with an irate curse he recognized as Finnish.

Though he was tempted to add a remark to the net, Bindl instead glanced out his window. Past a rocky stretch of desert was a palette of shimmering blue, the Mediterranean Sea looking so clean and inviting to his bored mind. The sight made him think of his childhood days vacationing on the coast of the Adriatic; visiting local churches, enjoying the country without the sanitized filter of the tourist havens, swimming in crystal clear water, it was a place free of the stresses of modern life. To this day those were his favorite memories.

Shaking his head, he went back to scanning the landscape. There wasn't any towns or cities around here owing to the inhospitable terrain, leaving the sector practically uninhabited. All save for the road his six vehicle convoy was taking, four Tpz Fuchs transports and two VBL scout vehicles at the front and rear, sweeping this area for any hostile scouts.

In the two hours since the platoon strength unit left, they hadn't seen a soul. Not locals, not EU forces, and luckily not the imperialist slavers trying to conquer Africa.

"Thank god." he mumbled under his breath, not loud enough to be heard over the engine. He knew that would change soon enough, especially if this unknown he was dispatched to investigate turned out to be the enemy. Admittedly a short lived surge of radio traffic in this region didn't sound like a combat situation, unlike what would happen if their luck ran out.

_"I spy with my little eye…"_

_"A rock. Cut it out Two, you're on the clock."_

_"Affirmative Echo Actual, just trying to keep sharp."_

_"Sure sure. Tell ya what Two, next time bring your guitar."_

_"Screw that you Serbian prick, I'm grabbing my bagpipes."_

Dismissing his thoughts, Bindl shuffled in place to grab his tablet from between the center console, booting up the hardy device to get some work done. Mainly drafting personnel reports for his company, sending them off to his parent Brigade's staff, currently headquartered at Alger alongside two other formations. Though he still considered paperwork the bane of his existence, he had a newfound appreciation for it after his last engagement. At least this didn't risk blowing off his leg.

After minutes of high octane boredom Bindl clicked the headset again, setting his mic to on; the lieutenant in the convoy's central Fuchs transport technically should've been doing this, it was his job after all, but he wanted to gauge the men's response for himself. It was the reason he dispatched three squads, thirty five men altogether, on a single patrol with him in tow rather than track them from headquarters. Well, that and he wanted some fresh air outside of the firebase, even if leaving his company behind meant fresh paperwork to do.

"Echo unit, anything?" he said, expecting very little.

_"Negative Echo Six."_

_"Negative."_

_"Nein, erm, negative." _Bindl made a quick note to discipline that man for the slip. Most of the unit were green troops fresh out of training, so he needed to make sure they were ready when they inevitably went into combat. Some basic recon would help in this regard, far better than simply throwing them against Britannian guns.

_"All clear Six. Until we hit Mostaganem there's nothing out here."_ went the platoon's Lieutenant, named Ingolf. A Swede if he remembered right, fresh out of Budapest's military academy with more ambition than experience.

Not far from the frontlines Bindl remembered, grimacing at the very idea. According to news, the enemy surged over Morocco's former border in two massive thrusts, one detouring around the Atlas Mountains on the way to Ghardaīa, and the other hugging the coastline towards the Algerian Protectorate's capital. Neither force were particularly speedy, thanks to unfriendly terrain and lackluster infrastructure, but they were still making excellent progress.

Two mechanized divisions were heading in his direction claimed reports, driving towards a string of cities defended by three European Union brigades and two Algerian infantry divisions. While he held a low opinion of the native troops, together the two allied forces had the collective might to stop the enemy advance cold.

"Hopefully."

Again Bindl thought that the Holy Britannian Empire shouldn't have been able to even land in Africa. Not after their costly and blatantly illegal invasion of the Middle Eastern Federation, but here they were with no signs of slowing down. And if the rumors were true, they somehow landed an army in Vladivostok last week, starting a huge offensive before the Russian Federation even realized they were under attack. Three different theaters across two continents, each effectively under the control of the European Union. All while an open insurgency battled occupation troops in the Philippines, and a growing resistance movement festered in Japan. It was madness.

So why weren't they stopped? Why didn't their oppressed subjects rise up en masse? Why weren't their commoner subclass revolting against their overprivileged tyrants? Just how could such a fractured patchwork of petty inbred fools make so much headway? Britannia's sheer success boggled his mind, while the EU struggled to even keep public interest in the war. He couldn't make sense of it.

Taking a deep breath as he unclenched his fist, Bindl checked on the trooper in the open backseat, currently manning an automatic grenade launcher in the face of the wind. He only saw the man's legs, which swiveled every few seconds as he searched around. A plus in his book. Checking on the driver, he caught the man glancing away in a hurry rather than meet his gaze. Luckily for him a rattle from the enclosed backseat took up his attention, twisting around to see cases of heavy bandoliers still where the men left them, secure and not spilling out like he feared.

The platoon was outfitted with anti-armor weapons, perfect for cutting those accursed Knightmares down to size. With their firebase roughly fifty kilometers away sporting a new airstrip, helicopters could be deployed to their location in a hurry, not to mention it ensured fighter cover would keep the Britannians from contesting their airspace. There wouldn't have a problem, not here.

Bindl's radio clicked again, Ingolf's crisp voice subtly asserting his authority. _"Echo Unit, report."_

_"Not a thing Actual."_

_"Negative contacts."_

_"Zero activity here-wait."_

Bindl picked up, catching the enlisted men stiffening at the same time. Just like him they recognized the shift in tone.

_"What do you got Echo Two?"_

_"Unsure, but there's something out at sea."_

Raising a brow, he heard scoffs from the rest of the net. The only vessels in the Mediterranean belonged to the Union, not unless the Britannians stole local ships without alerting anyone. Either the contact was a civilian freighter on a travel route, or it was an EU Frigate making sure nothing unwelcome slipped through the Straits of Gibraltar, or slithered out from the former MEF's ports. Especially after that weird out of season storm last week, which disrupted communications from Valencia to Sicily. A ship out here was normal.

Except there wasn't supposed to be anything in this sector.

"Stop here." Bindl commanded, pressing into his seatbelt when the VBL came to a skidding halt. Just ahead of the vehicle's front bumper was a slab of thick plating, the Fuchs possessing enough clearance to open its back hatch. He mentally congratulated his driving, but docked points when he glanced to him for further orders rather than scan the area himself.

"_Eyes open, watch for hostiles_." Ingolf ordered over the radio. Though he wasn't in danger, Bindl felt for his holstered sidearm just in case; Britannians usually targeted heavier vehicles first, but there were never any guarantees in combat. Not to mention the omnipresent risk of Berber nationalists, who remained unruly terrorists even with the real enemy on the march.

Spying the troops dismounting with practiced care, Bindl elected to peer at the Mediterranean once again, idly rooting around the cab for his binoculars until he grasped its hot polymer casing. Rolling the dirt strewn windows down gave him an unobstructed view of the beautiful sea, making him shake his head to get back on track.

Sweeping the binoculars across the shimmering water, he had to squint when the glare struck his eyes without mercy, for several long seconds almost blinding him. Gritting his teeth, he brought the optics up again to keep looking. Exiting the VBL would give him a better view, but at the moment he didn't consider it necessary. And with his leg, such an act needed to be worth the ri-

"There!"

All around his vehicle the men glanced, focusing on the lone trooper pointing a hand. Not everyone looked at once he noted approvingly, sweeping around to ensure their other avenues were covered. Each man had their weapon hefted at the ready, mounted guns swiveled periodically, and a crackle from his radio told him Ingolf was calling it in, a glance at his direction showing he was still inside his Fuchs.

"_Echo Actual to Command, we have an unidentified ship at coordinates…_" Bindl should've listened to make sure the right location was given, but he had bigger concerns.

Narrowing his eyes, he leaned out of his window with his binoculars pressed into his socket. He winced and hissed when his hand touched the boiling hot metal outside, but he was more upset at losing track of his target than scalding himself. It was right over… there.

The second he centered on the image, his blood ran cold.

Their contact was a squat aircraft carrier, slowly prowling across the Mediterranean Sea a few dozen kilometers from their position. A flat deck missing the assistive ramps which characterized European and Chinese made carriers, the lone conn tower in the center topped by a tall radio mast, and colored a dull gray, the medium sized vessel was hard to mistake, and with a battlefield raging so very close to here, its purpose was obvious. Though curiously, there seemed to be plenty of red streaks along its waterline. Unusual to see but far from unheard of, especially for older ships.

Bindl flinched when his view unexpectedly went dark, jerking his binoculars down to discover Ingolf halting at his door, hunching over to speak. Uniform immaculate despite the heat, his angular expression shown with grim concern.

"Sir, there's not supposed to be any ships in this area. Two fighters are inbound from Relizane to investigate, but I was ordered by Colonel Alvaro to return to base immediately." he said softly, his own blond hair appearing greasy all of a sudden to Bindl's perspective.

He nodded with the same feeling, internally glad to see some sense in the young man. "I agree. Order the unit to pack up-"

"Sir!" bellowed a soldier from the command Fuchs, standing up from the hatch with clear alarm. "Detecting a radio transmission!"

"Frequency?! Ours?" Ingolf yelled back, though Bindl could guess the answer.

"Negative!"

Immediately both men pawed at their headsets, tuning the devices through different channels. The elder of the pair grimaced at the static assaulting his ears, crackly and intelligible no matter what he did; fragments of civilian traffic, bits of military transmissions from all over the region, even a short blast of Arabic that made him wince at the volume, until finally he located the source.

_"-anted Wardog Squadron… cleared for launch… T-minus one mike, mark."_

The speaker wasn't in French, the lingua franca across Europe and Africa, but in English. Only one nation on the planet spoke it predominantly.

Ignoring his aching foot, Bindl threw the door open to stumble out to the coastal desert. Heedless of the danger, he brought his optics back up to realign on the unknown ship; he had no idea how a carrier made it all the way here alone, much less without being discovered, but at the moment that didn't matter.

"Lieutenant Ingolf, update command. We have a confirmed Britannian ship near our position." he barked, scanning furiously for hostiles.

"Roger, combat positions!" he snarled as he sprinted back towards the Fuchs, while the troops hefted weapons and hunched around whatever cover they had. Terror clouded each man's face, but they acted with little hesitancy to get ready.

Bindl's conceded to getting behind an APC, though his eyes didn't leave the warship. He watched for any sign of hostility, ignoring unimportant thoughts bubbling in the back of his mind. Namely that a launched fighter would be in strafing range within a minute, assuming of course the ship didn't lob a few missiles at them instead. A tiny part of him again wondered just where they came from, but he had to shelve his questions for now.

His radio went off once more, much clearer now. _"Launch, good luck Wardogs."_

When a dark shape departed the carrier he tensed up, grimacing as a trooper crouched down right beside him. Bindl focused on the ship to count: first one, then two fighters launched, swiftly followed by a third. He had to blink at the way they left however, rising up from the flattop almost vertically before taking off; the EU favored VTOLs for their carriers, but the Britannians only had a few variants still in service. One here was odd to put it lightly. When a fourth departed he swiveled to the jets, idly noting that each plane was almost skimming the sea surface.

"One fighter inbound!" someone yelled, making him grip his binoculars tighter. The truth was he was terrified; four planes may not have sounded intimidating, but the platoon didn't have more than a couple AA launchers stowed away. And for as much as he hated to admit it, the EU's standard 'Pfeil' portable interception missiles weren't as useful as they were fifteen years ago.

While the rest of the flight scattered in different directions, one fighter grew steadily larger, quite plainly heading their way. Baring his teeth to control his unsteady breathing, Bindl hefted his binoculars to try to determine what it had for armaments. After changing the magnification he needed just seconds to relocate the enemy jet-

"Wait a sec." he muttered, ignoring the trooper at his flank sending him a puzzled look. Raising a brow, he gripped both hands on his binoculars to track the incoming flyer.

Once he caught it again, Bindl mouthed a wordless question under his breath. Unless he was deeply mistaken, the faded grey 'jet' appeared to have legs hanging below its hull, two bright engines spaced widely apart, and what he thought were arms hanging off the sides. There were no signs of wings, bomb laden or not, and it definitely lacked the bullet-like nose of any other jet in service. In fact, it didn't look like a plane at all.

"A Knightmare?" he mumbled, utterly baffled the more he saw. Seconds later and his brow creased. "No…"

Commotion tore his attention away; he glanced over his shoulder to discover Ingolf with a rifle in hand, scrambling around the parked vehicles yelling orders to the fearful men, only just making sure they complied before moving on to the next team. His projected aura of command wasn't enough to mask his own terror, not by a long shot.

"Launchers out, move move move!" he barked, jabbing a hand for two men scrambling behind a Fuchs, handling a long tube and a large case as they fell into a crouch.

Returning to their unusual contact, Bindl peered through his binoculars for any more details. He wasn't quite sure what to look for, but he knew exactly what it was the very second he spotted it, the momentary sight enough to make his eyes widen.

Ingolf glanced between the team and the target, breaking out in a cold sweat. "Lock on and-"

"Wait hold fire!" Bindl shouted, bolting to his feet with a snarl. No matter how much pain he was in he swiped a hand overhead, twisting around to make sure they stopped.

"Captain!?" he barked in evident confusion, with the missile armed duo exchanging a stunned look. They weren't the only ones; most of the troops in visual range sent him a sharp glance, lasting seconds before they swiveled back to the incoming flyer.

Hissing as he shifted his weight, Bindl prepared himself. "This thing isn't Britannian."

"How do you know sir? We don't have anything like that!" Ingolf retorted much faster than he anticipated. By now the whining sound of its engines were reaching them, they didn't have much time left to intercept it.

"Neither do the Britannians. But even if they did, why would they put a Japanese flag on the hull?" he barked. Upon noticing his weapon's telescoped optics, he stabbed a hand behind him in a silent command.

With a grumble Ingolf complied, bringing up his weapon to peer down his scope, several of the men with the right equipment copying him. Bindl was about to return to their incoming target, but the way he lowered the rifle halted him, his look of sheer befuddlement definitely encouraging.

"Is that thing being flown by Elevens?" Immediately Bindl had to stop himself, clenching a fist rather than correcting him; now wasn't the time to quibble over names. Then Ingolf's brow narrowed considerably. "Doesn't matter, take it down."

"Hold your fire." he snapped at the team, swiveling back to his balking subordinate. "You are not firing on that thing without my say-so."

Ingolf stomped a foot on the dusty soil in an evident challenge. "Captain, Area Eleven is part of Britannia, there's no reason to suspect its friend-"

"That is an order Lieutenant." Bindl almost growled. He stared down the younger man, unmoving as Ingolf retreated a step. In the back of his mind he suddenly considered the likelihood of a mutiny; there hadn't been a true rebellion in the EU military since the bloody Russo-Ottoman wars a hundred years ago, but for an army originally built by revolutionaries, it remained a possibility even now. Ice gripped his veins when he realized the platoon could simply claim he was killed in action and no one would be the wiser.

Only iron discipline kept him together when Ingolf lowered his arms. "Understood, sir."

Before he could reply, Bindl found that the roar was getting very loud. Whipping around, he abruptly discovered that the contact, some kind of Knightmare, was practically on top of them.

A shadow passed overhead, but he barely noticed; the wind turned from nonexistent to a cyclone level gale instantaneously, so strong he was just about ripped off his feet. Stumbling and hacking for air, he waved his arms fruitlessly to dispel the dust cloud yanked from the topsoil, while the men huddled and covered themselves the best they could. Wiping his stinging eyes with a dirty sleeve, he swung his head left and right until he located it again.

A snarl left him at seeing the flying Knightmare shrinking, gaining enough altitude for him to see it departing further inland. An idea struck him; clicking his radio headset, he switched back to the same frequency he first heard english on.

"Unknown flyer, this is Echo unit. Identify yourself." Bindl had to shout over the diminishing roar, groaning as he shifted his weight. For several seconds nothing happened, earning a snarl. "I say again, this is Echo unit to the machine who flew over my convoy. State your name and nationality."

The flyer banked, curving around in a wide circle to lead back towards them. Once he was sure it was returning, Bindl congratulated himself for his quick thinking, right before he considered the possibility that it really was Britannian. In which case he just signed his own death warrant. But it was too late to back out now.

His radio went off again, except… he raised a brow at the speech coming out of his headset. He didn't understand a word they said, except he recognized the speaker was female, one that sounded authoritative and definitely not in the mood for games. There was a click, and suddenly a bizarre synthetic voice was dubbed over the woman.

_"Echo Unit, state your name and nation of origin. You have thirty seconds to comply, start." _went the mechanical reply in french, but in a dialect he never heard before, a fact he wasn't sure was possible.

Ingolf sent him a dirty look, but he chose to disregard it in favor of replying. "We are part of the 149th Panzergrenadier Brigade. Again, identify yourself."

Despite himself Bindl lowered his stance a small bit when the flyer approached again, dipping down to almost drag its feet on the desert surface. He couldn't help grimacing; even if the platoon did unleash their tiny AA stockpile, there was little chance their missiles could hit at that altitude. The rest of their AT munitions soothed his fears, but not enough to feel confident.

Once again the machine cruised overhead, but much slower this time, enough to feel the scorching exhaust from its multiple jet engines. Now that he only needed to hold up an arm to protect his face, Bindl suddenly discovered the mech was enormous; its shadow engulfed the Fuchs adjacent to him entirely, dark enough to seem like an early nightfall. At least until more dust was kicked up by the backwash, blinding him and sending wads of sand into his mouth.

He gasped and hacked so much he missed the sunlight returning, making a haze so thick he couldn't see more than a few indistinct outlines where the closest men were. The forms he could barely see were shifting around, evidently copying him as best they could, and were having about as much success.

"Ah, Scheiße." he cursed and coughed simultaneously, wiping at his eyes again and again. The dust just started to settle when the ground beneath him thumped from a concussive impact, rattling him and startling every man he could hear over the engines, which sounded very much like they were winding down.

Lowering his hand, Bindl swept his gaze back and forth until he spotted the flyer, announcing its location to them in a whine of servos and a rumble of what he was sure was a footstep. Checking to make sure the platoon was recovering, he stood up straight to finally examine their unknown contact in detail, seeing it shift its weight a short distance away.

Its shoulders were broad and its legs were long, with sizable vanes on its forearms and rounded knee pads, all sleek and aerodynamic. The head peering down on them held a pair of swept back antennas over a rounded top, together with a sizable chin component making its blue recessed visor appear like it was squinting. He spotted two huge jet engines at its rear, both swiveling machines looking like they were ripped out of a true fighter. Clamped onto its back was a sword, looking almost like the love child of a cutlass and a japanese katana.

In addition to everything else, he blanched upon realizing this machine held a pair of twin barreled rifles in each hand, both guns sweeping over the parked convoy. And as he spotted first, it was painted a faded gray, with a red circle proudly displayed on the right of its broad shoulders.

Oh, and it had to be at least seventeen meters tall.

"Ah hell." someone behind him muttered, the fear seeping off him and everyone else. Small wonder, this thing was easily four times larger than any Knightmare in service. But however much Bindl wanted to agree, a frown creased his features the closer he looked, noting details which didn't make sense. Like the dents in several spots all over its body, off colored machinery on its arms and knees which looked to be jury rigged, and multiple patches of scuffed metal (or at least it looked like metal) all over, especially around its feet. Even the twin guns appeared used and abused to his eyes.

"What are you?" he mumbled quietly, trying to reconcile the super Knightmare's ragged state with its never before seen appearance. A much harder task than accepting its giant guns pointed at them, especially as one passed right over him for several long seconds. At least he knew how to handle that.

A loudspeaker crackling on made him flinch, as much as doing so stung at his pride. As one the entire platoon trained every weapon they had upon the machine, from rifles and machine guns all the way to their new laser guided missiles, returning its silent threat with their own.

_"Echo Unit, identify your leader."_ went the synthetic voice.

Sparing a glance at a sour faced Ingolf, Bindl let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. This was his idea, his order. He had to take care of this himself.

Twitching his expression from every step, Bindl snapped his fingers and pointed, and in just seconds a trooper retrieved a megaphone from his VBL to shove into his hands, departing for cover without an acknowledgement. Not that he was in the mood to admonish him. Making sure the battery was good, he walked slowly to the far side of the Fuchs and clicked it on; the split second high pitched screech made him wince, but still he brought it up to his mouth.

"Captain Matthias Bindl of the 149th Panzergrenadier brigade, North African Command." he paused, not to catch his breath but to gauge the machine's response.

The giant's legs were still, but its arms swung up and down with a whine of servos, both shoulders rising and falling with the movements. It gave the distinct impression of mulling over his statement. A part of him considered the level of dexterity extraordinary, though admittedly his only similar experience was a month of familiarity training on a Panzer-Hummel, enough to drive one if he ever fell in the cockpit. A bit more if he counted the canned Britannian propaganda from Area Eleven, regarding that new white Knightmare the media reported on lately.

Again it's loudspeaker crackled, though it made no sound for a moment. _"Are you at war?"_

Bindl hesitated. Of all things he expected the pilot to say, that was far from the first. And though he didn't dare take his eyes off the super Knightmare, he heard the men behind him stirring in their own way.

"We are." he spoke grimly into his megaphone.

_"How long?"_

This time Bindl groaned, features twitching when he shifted his foot. "Roughly a year."

To his astonishment the machine lowered its rifles, hanging them closer to its hips rather than pointed at the convoy. He just started to feel relief when he heard a sharp clank from the machine, the cause being something he missed for several seconds: the center of its chest was sliding open. A hatch of some kind popped out, showing him a slab of armor plating in front of what had to be a cockpit, though from ground level he couldn't see the internals.

Then a lone figure rose into view.

All he could tell for sure was they had brunette hair, nothing else from his vantage point. But all the same, he recognized what their intent was, though he didn't expect it to be this easy.

"Lieutenant, keep your eyes on the other contacts. If this goes sour you need to return to base immediately. Understood?" Bindl commanded without looking back, holding his binoculars and megaphone behind him for a trooper to take.

"Yes sir." Ingolf replied tersely, he hoped he wasn't imagining this was a stepping stone in his career. "Good luck."

Inhaling deeply, he took his hand away from his holster to walk, maintaining a slow pace from both choice and his inflamed foot. He forced his expression to still as he moved over the rocky soil, spacing his arms apart to show he wasn't hiding anything. On their part, the super Knightmare's pilot hitched up to an unseen cable to descend, the whine of a tiny winch reaching his ears. Thanks to the sun's position there was no shade between him and them, nothing to hide details from sight.

When he was within ten meters he was able to examine the pilot, who reached the ground to step off a tiny hook. Presented to him was a black and lime green suit, with what looked like armor padding on the arms, shoulders and hips, though the center from the neck down was covered by some kind of skin tight elastic material. It took him a few seconds to see past the draped brown hair, but there was a brace reaching up to her chin, almost like a reverse headset.

"Oh." Bindl mumbled under his breath when he finally allowed himself to process it: the pilot was a woman. Late twenties, asiatic based on her features, and sporting visible frown lines, she was practically nothing like what he expected from such a bizarre Knightmare. And her flight suit, what he assumed it to be anyway, revealed some rather… enticing assets…

She was aiming a handgun at him. Bindl internally sighed in relief; he needed the distraction. Clearing his throat from two body lengths away, he tapped on his torso before holding his arms at chest level.

"I am Captain Matthias Bindl." he greeted in rough english. A part of him was happy that his language courses were paying off, even if he knew the results left much to be desired.

The woman stared intently with no trace of mirth. But nevertheless, she used her free hand to mime him. "Major Jinguuji Marimo."

Her accent was strong, but still better than his own harsh pronunciation. Nevertheless he focused on the important parts, beside the gun she didn't take away from his chest.

He cleared his throat. "Français? Deutsch?"

"No, few words. English here." she shook her head without taking her eyes off him. "Tell me about the war." she said next, or rather demanded based on tone.

"Ah…" Bindl scrunched up his brow, debating on what to say. He had to tell her something, she had the gun for starters, but what? "We've been at war for a year now, as I said."

"Where?" she questioned insistently.

Moving slowly, he lifted his arm to point west. Major Marimo (or was it Jinguuji? He knew Chinese naming conventions were reversed from Euro ones, but did that apply to her too?) didn't let him out of her sight, but she did trail her gaze in that direction. Despite the hair shrouding her face he caught her eyes narrowing.

"An enemy army is approaching Mostaganem, a hundred kilometers or so that way." he explained. Instead of tensing up or showing fear, she sent him a look.

"You're fighting humans?" she questioned an octave lower than earlier, her sidearm wavering.

"Yes?" he replied in confusion. "The Britannians want to conquer this entire continent."

"Britannian…" she repeated slowly, frowning in thought. She didn't appear furious at the mention, just puzzled, which served to increase his own confusion.

Bindl slowly dropped his arms. "Major, just who are you? And what is this thing?"

Marimo, he decided on that for her name, lowered the weapon at last. "I'm with the Imperial Japanese Army, Seventeenth Flight Wardogs. This is my Shiranui."

Now it was Bindl's turn to be lost. Oh the words were understandable, being in English didn't change that, but the grouping, what she referred to, he had to stop just to make sense of it. Especially the part about the machine; was Shiranui the name of the giant construct, or was it the model type? The former was preferable, for imagining more than a handful of these things existing boggled his mind too much.

His unease must've shown on his face, for she wrinkled her expression as well.

"Did you understand me?" she questioned cautiously.

"Yes, but… Imperial?" he shook his head, composing himself as she raised a brow. "If you're Japanese Major, how do you not recognize the Britannians?" He cleared his throat, sparing a look over his shoulder; the platoon were still where he left them, with Ingolf poking his head up to show his uneasy mood.

This time she narrowed her gaze. "Who are they?"

"They're, ah-" Bindl paused to rub his brow, trying to collect his thoughts. Nothing Marimo said made sense; how did she not know about the war with Britannia? Practically every European citizen found out within a day of Paris' declaration, his hometown in rural Bavaria had it as front page news for a week. For what reason did she call Japan an empire, something it ceased to be since the Pacific War forty years ago? Where'd she get this Shiranui thing from?

Most importantly, why here?

"What's wrong?" Marimo asked guardedly, hand raised but not coming any closer. Bindl opened his mouth to answer, but he abruptly went quiet, something that made her stiffen.

Stilling himself to the point where even his breath was shallow and slow, he felt his eyes going wide on their own, slowly swiveling his head from side to side. Ever since his first firefight a decade ago, he found that he had a sort of sixth sense regarding danger; he wasn't sure if it was due to the officer's training or some natural instinct, but he knew enough to trust the pit in his stomach, what it meant for him.

Bracing for the refined hell of his lingering wound, he gulped. "Major, get back inside right now."

From seemingly everywhere boomed a cacophony of gunfire. Bindl ducked and cursed as he started running, arm raised overhead for meager protection, feet stumbling across the rocky soil back to the convoy. He gasped and panted at the red hot agony making him limp at the worst time, trying desperately not to look at the puffs of dirt kicking up way too close for comfort. Whistling bullets passed by seemingly centimeters from his skin.

Despite the urgent need to /run like hell/,he risked life and limb to twist around; Marimo hunched over too, darting onto her hook as shots pinged off the super Knightmare's hull. She wasn't just running however, sticking her arm out to take potshots in the attacker's general direction while she was pulled up, features twisted into a snarl at one near miss making her flinch.

"Fire! Fire at will!" Ingolf screamed over the hellish noise, swinging his weapon around alongside a dozen men to return fire. The attackers were pouring over a tiny ridge a short distance from the road, dozens of men scrambling over terrain while shooting at them. Bindl only needed to hear their weapon's report to tell who they were, but the black armor on their darting forms cinched it.

Running behind their APCs, his troops managed to stay halfway responsive even while several men dropped, poking out to take shots at the Britannian infantry, felling a handful in seconds. Meanwhile the machine guns and grenade launchers on the other vehicles swiveled around to lend their own punishing fusillade, one gun managing to scythe down a half dozen foolish invaders in one burst, spraying blood onto the hot soil.

Bindl smashed into his VBL with a pained snarl, barely able to detect his radio going off over the gunfire as he slid behind his truck's weak protection. He heard rather than saw his vehicle's gunner die from an ill placed shot, some blood pattering on a rock a couple meters away as a final marker. In spite of that, he heard their fire start to overpower the enemy, putting down hostiles with righteous fury. For a moment he hoped the platoon had this.

But alas, the Britannians had other ideas.

From over the ridge came a quartet of brown painted machines, clearing the top at high speeds. Bipedal yet possessing rapid drive systems in their feet, the four and a half meter tall war machines known as Knightmare Frames, Sutherland models based on the hulls, opened up with machine guns and a single cannon, repaying their losses by turning one Fuchs into a fireball. Bindl flinched at the backwash of boiling heat, gasping as several of his screaming men tumbled away like rag dolls. Even as they died the other vehicles were perforated by automatic fire, their armored hulls ripped open faster than he could believe.

"Scheiße!" he shouted without hearing his own voice, seeing a zipping Knightmare easily dodge a hastily aimed missile before pasting the luckless trooper. And yet, he felt no fear.

At that moment the super Knightmare, the Shiranui, came back to life in a powerful groan of its engines, almost like a bellow of an enraged beast. All four Sutherlands immediately took their attention off the ravaged platoon to focus, the way they froze indicating just how shocked they were. But no matter what they felt as the giant lurched forward, they recovered quickly. As one the Knightmares hefted weapons to open fire.

They were fast, but the Shiranui whipping its arms up was faster. Powerful roars of guns much bigger than theirs ripped into a pair of Sutherlands, including the cannon armed unit who didn't get the chance to fire again, catching them before either could escape. In the blink of an eye they were shredded, thick armor that could withstand small arms with impunity rent wide open in a single burst, and in near unison they exploded in a shower of fragmented steel. The other two Sutherlands swerved around to flee, but Marimo didn't let them get away, firing off a much different round which obliterated both Knightmares where they stood.

The entire time Bindl was hunched behind his VBL, awed beyond belief at the near effortless destruction. He barely noticed the remaining Britannian grunts turning tail to run, nor Ingolf running to and fro to stop the men from giving chase, settling for taking potshots at their backs. Swallowing a lump, he checked his watch; the entire fight couldn't have lasted longer than a minute.

Stopping to heft its weapons skywards, the Shiranui scanned for any more hostiles before unnervingly locking onto him. Having a giant machine staring did no favors for his shaky nerves. Still, he was quite pleased to not have that thing as an enemy.

Without warning explosions ripped across its chest, staggering the groaning Shiranui and making it stagger back as if dazed. Feeling the fresh heat and shrapnel flicking at his form, Bindl gasped at the unexpected blow hammering him, for a moment he feared the worst.

"More hostiles! Eleven'oh'clock-" the trooper yelling was flung back in a shower of blood, the first victim of a new hail of fire.

Even as the Shiranui raised an arm against a fresh shell detonating against its shoulder, Bindl was on the move, ignoring the pain to scramble to the back of the VBL. Gasping for breath, the hot metal scalding his palm didn't register as he pulled himself into the back, and neither did the sagging body he unceremoniously unclipped to toss aside. Being in a life or death situation meant he didn't hear his radio going off in an alert tone.

The sole thing to make him hesitate was seeing the opposition; a dozen more Knightmares weaving over the road towards the convoy, heavily armed and alternating between shooting the giant and them. Rasping for breath, he gripped the mounted gun and took aim at the nearest Sutherland, who ignored him to pour fire into the Shiranui. Its mistake.

He laid on the triggers without restraint, feeling the automatic grenade launcher thump in his grip. Lurching back from explosive shells slamming into its side, the Sutherland lost its balance and stumbled, making it easy prey for his weapon. Forty millimeter rounds detonated against its hull at a rate of some three or four per second, not that he was counting.

"Die you arschloch!" Bindl yelled, feeling a vicious grin at seeing the Sutherland sag into a heap, though he growled at the cockpit launching away. Swiveling the gun to his next target, he opened fire at the same time high powered shells ripped gaping holes in his VBL, inadvertently lacerating parts of his legs. He snarled without being able to hear himself.

For the Sutherland he fired at, one lucky grenade managed to destroy its factsphere in a concussive explosion, destabilizing the machine just enough to let him fire at its chest, blowing off an arm and throwing it to the ground. Before he saw the cockpit blast away to safety Bindl caught a glimpse of yet another Knightmare, this one taking aim with a gun the size of him. There was no time to stop it. This was where he was going to die.

The Sutherland split open, like a gigantic arrow punched a hole through its chest and into the cockpit. Bindl stared uncomprehendingly at the Knightmare exploding, unable to grasp how he was still alive. That was until he swept his eyes to the sides, first catching the remaining Britannians turning away from the platoon to lift their weapons skywards, and then he saw why.

From the Mediterranean came a trio of machines just like the Shiranui, opening fire with their own guns on the attackers; half the Knightmares were torn apart where they stood, dropping into perforated heaps just like the infantry around them. All three newcomers circled around during the assault, hip jets roaring as they circled the remaining enemies, cutting loose without mercy.

Yet he wasn't so engrossed to not notice more shots sailing overhead; by snapping over he discovered it was Marimo's Shiranui, scorched and scarred yet still very intact, and judging by the way the giant stomped perilously close to the remaining Europeans, very angry. Both her guns sprayed shells at the fleeing Britannians, turning Knightmares to scrap and infantry into a fine red mist. A jerk of the arm had one more shell hit the last Sutherland, obliterating it in a ball of fire.

Sagging against the siding, Bindl heaved for breath as he felt his muscles weakening, the adrenaline seeping out of his system to leave behind exhaustion. The noise level lowered significantly when the other three Shiranuis landed with rattling thumps one after the other, parking in a rough square around the ravaged platoon, making no effort to hide their tracking gazes.

Shuddering out a ragged gulp, Bindl tilted up to find the first machine seeming to slump just like he was, like it too was worn out by the fight. A hiccup of a laugh left him at the sight.

"Lieutenant Ingolf!" he croaked, turning his grim eyes towards the wrecked convoy, watching the remaining troopers rise from cover. His heart sank when he did a rough headcount, realizing that half the platoon were injured or dead.

A familiar face got up from behind a damaged Fuchs, clutching his bleeding arm while heaving. "Captain!"

Bindl opened his mouth, but he didn't know what to say. Hissing at the blood running down his cheek, he instead settled on procedure. "Tend to the wounded, I'll radio Command."

"Yes sir." he yelled before groaning, but nevertheless he trod away to help the dazed men, all of whom cast fearful looks at the Shiranuis in their midst.

"Yeah, radio." Bindl mumbled to himself, glancing to the VBL's interior to find it a splintered mess. Feeling aches all throughout his body, he hung his head and groaned, then was rattled when the bizarre machines stepped around. "What the hell am I going to tell Command?"


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Before I start, two things. First, I'm an idiot. The positive feedback from last chapter is making me toss away my written lead for the sake of more views. Attention whore ho! And second; Dragonheart Of Ireland, OBSERVER01, admelot, aelreth42, kamikage86 (you two in particular), Addie Card, etunim1, and Kinunatzs The Eternal? All you guys are awesome.

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_"But, sir-"_

_"It'll be alright Lieutenant. I've already received authorization from Command, my codes are being invalidated as we speak. See to the wounded, and if I don't come back make sure its known."_

Once again the exchange ran through Captain Bindl's thoughts. With it came a shiver running down his spine, which he told himself was due to the freezing wind blasting his skin, and certainly not because of the situation he willingly put himself in. Whatever regret or unease trying to bubble up were ruthlessly crushed; he agreed to Marimo's request to meet her superior for answers, and he wasn't going to accept it was a bad idea. Not now and not ever.

Clutching the gifted poncho closer and ignoring the aches throughout his body, Bindl felt his nerves vehemently disagree. Grunting as he adjusted his seat on the slab of thinly padded metal they called a chair, he pulled against the restraints holding him in place without meaning to, idly making sure the thick muffs weren't about to slip off. Since the helicopter crew didn't close the side hatches for whatever reason, he didn't want the Mediterranean to swallow up his ear protection.

It was a rather strange helicopter which showed up about fifteen minutes after the firefight, sporting a lot of equipment on it's speedy elongated frame. Most of it he recognized as radar and sonar gear, along with an unmistakable set of weapons bolted on the hull. All it had for markings were some numbers on the side and on the bottom, along with a faded icon on the side, that of a star flanked by horizontal bars. Neither the helicopter nor the Shiranuis behaved antagonistic to each other, in fact the super Knightmares moved to cover its landing.

The time gap was long enough for him to radio Command about the ambush and report the unknown people, plus applying a full bandage roll to his cuts; the medics were too busy to see to him, even if he wanted them to. Fourteen dead and nineteen wounded were far more important than his own relatively minor injuries. Once he had confirmation from Algiers he agreed to get onboard the grey craft over Ingolf's protests (concerning security rather than his own safety), which he gathered was called a 'Seahawk' based on what little he overheard from radio chatter, before he left his headset behind.

Swiveling to the 'bodyguards' as he thought of them, he felt his skin crawl. Four men and women were in the cabin, one beside him and two across, clad in green camouflage he didn't recognize. However much he wanted to question them, the fact that each one had gas masks under their helmets, thick body armor, and black rifles with fingers never far from triggers dissuaded him from talking. Apart from one who wordlessly strapped him in and provided his earmuffs, they were like statues. Watchful armed statues.

Growing uncomfortable at their faceless stares, Bindl gazed out the exit again, wrinkling his face at the wind rushing into the cabin. Seeing the soft waving sea passing by a hundred meters below calmed him somewhat, even with a strong chill from the rotors beating down on him, aggravating the innumerable aches through his uniform. If there was any good from this flight, it had to be this view. He sorely needed it after that latest brush with death.

Remarkably little turbulence shook the helicopter thanks to a promising forecast, making for an uneventful flight. So when he felt a powerful jolt rattle the entire craft he gripped his handholds, ruefully discovering the guards did little beside hang on to something, without even looking away from him.

"What the…" he mumbled as he glanced from side to side; even through the muffs he heard a roaring sound, which manifested as a large shadow over the helicopter. "That's-"

Bindl couldn't help gawking when it dipped into sight: the Shiranui let its legs dangle as it flew, lower jets glowing an azure color as it slowed down, unlike three more darting shapes cruising on ahead. From this angle he got to examine more of its gray form, taking note of both the head unit swiveling towards them, the couple pylons on its back resembling oversized clamps (one of which held an enormous rifle), and its free hand that offered a friendly wave at them. Quite an odd sight from a giant war machine which obliterated a Britannian recon company not even a half hour ago. Though a part of him felt relieved; Marimo told him her flight would stay behind until friendly forces were close, meaning the platoon received the help they needed.

The Shiranui was roughly a hundred meters away, but as he watched it tilted to the side, putting more distance between it and them. The shaking consequently weakened quickly, making him think it was his pilot's doing. He couldn't help but raise a brow at the behavior; enlisted men had a tendency to do stupid stuff when not in danger, something he occasionally did as well over the years. Whoever these people were, they still acted familiarly.

One of his guards twisted his head, catching his eye. After a second he nodded and resumed his original pose. Raising a brow at the event, Bindl opted to look outside again, and found himself pleasantly surprised.

Coming into view was the contact which began all this, the unknown aircraft carrier. Craning his head to a spot out of the wind, he glanced up and down its unremarkable appearance, seeing the rust streaked gray hull as the helicopter banked around, the flat top currently hosting multiple craft spaced out between its many paint lines. He guessed it to be two hundred and sixty meters or so in length, perhaps a bit more, showing hull markings he unfortunately couldn't more than peek at with their speed.

"Why aren't we…" he began, until he spied their escort Shiranui coming in slowly, hovering over the surface before slowly going down. Barely visible were crewman guiding it to their correct location, waving glowing batons just like European flight personnel. The moment its weight settled the entire ship rocked ever so slightly, though not remotely enough to capsize it, and the way the people shaped dots below stayed put indicated this was normal.

Sweeping his gaze, he discovered it wasn't the only super Knightmare onboard. Two more weathered Shiranuis were parked outside of a marked square in front of the conn tower, joining a pair of giants already standing in place, one's carbon scoring indicating it was Marimo's. He was glad the damage she took didn't stop her from returning safe and sound. Letting out a tiny sigh of relief, he abruptly did a double take at the other giant beside hers, this one quite plainly not a Shiranui.

Its paint was a light blue and its the armor was compact yet bulkier, showing off different symbols than the Japanese machine, including of all things a pair of crossed black knives painted on its left shoulder. Instead of a sword it had plenty of guns, two for each hand and another pair clamped onto its back. They definitely looked related, but enough differences existed to tell them apart as separate designs. He coldly realized that his previous assumption was wrong: there were more of those super Knightmares in existence. But how many? Six? Ten?

A thousand?

Stomach fluttering from their descent, Bindl felt the helicopter begin to throttle down, closing in on the opposite side of the conn tower. Once the wheels underneath rebounded off the tarmac he let out a strong breath, discovering ashamedly he was gripping a handhold for dear life. The moment he let go the beating engine audibly weakened, making him glance up for confirmation; the rotors were slowing.

"Alright, we're here." he mumbled, waiting until the guards undid their belts to free himself. Two hopped out before him, the way they shook their legs demonstrating their soreness. Bindl grimaced himself when he jumped onto the oddly rough surface, peeling his boots off with every step as he stretched, while giving the ground a displeased look. Over his head the artificial gusts weakened, letting bright sunlight take over fully.

Bindl wanted to examine the super Knightmares more, but a thick hatch opening nearby put a stop to that. Glancing to the tower entrance, he felt himself cringing in uncertainty; a half dozen figures in weird inflated suits trotted into the light, showing off their bulky forms and curved glass faceplates for heads, all colored either blue or white. They looked similar to hazardous chemical protection gear or disease isolation suits, but more antiseptic and impersonal. For just a moment he wasn't sure those... things, were actually human.

Then he spotted containers and tools in their hands, and raised a brow at most of them going to the helicopter. Except for one heading towards him, the faceplate showing an African featured head behind its protective glass, a women oddly enough. The sight of her confirmed a suspicion he'd been carrying this whole time.

"Captain Bindl, welcome to the USS Lexington." Greeted the bulky figure through a mouthpiece, speaking in heavily accented french. English accented french (actually rather badly pronounced being honest), but the woman himself didn't act condescending in any way. She stopped a body's length from him, flanked by a pair of rifle toting guards in gas masks.

"Pardon me." he started, before grimacing to himself. He cleared his throat and made sure it was in english this time. "Are you part of the crew?"

"Yes sir, I've been ordered by Captain Avery to escort you." she replied promptly, still in french.

"And you are?" Bindl questioned with a narrowed brow. Their accents, the ship's name, both were unmistakably Britannian. Yet something felt off; didn't they use HMS for ship prefixes?

"I'm Second Lieutenant Daisy Irons sir. The Captain wishes to speak to you, he'll answer all your questions." she assured in a flat tone. In contrast the camouflaged men at her sides hardly seemed to even breath. How they could stand the heat in those outfits, he had no idea.

"Alright, but what about these?" he wasn't exactly sure what the suits were, so in lieu of guessing aloud he simply gestured at the blue covering.

"Biohazard protection sir." she answered, earning a raised brow.

"But I'm not sick." he protested with a frown. Not helping his point was a glance at the helicopter, discovering them hard at work scrubbing down its interior.

"I'm sure you aren't sir, but it's more complicated than that. Now please." Lieutenant Irons held out a hand towards the tower, both guards stepping back for room.

Groaning unhappily, he acquiesced. "Fine, alright."

Bindl let Irons go in front, one guard taking point while the other stayed behind him, letting him feel eyes boring into his back. He grimaced uncomfortably, but the truth was he didn't have a lot of options; he came alone, left behind his computer and sidearm (not that the latter would help here), and his only assurance came from the mouth of a Britannian. An oddly polite and non-hostile one however, lending to the confusion nesting in his mind. Almost as much as the enormous machines standing so tantalizingly close, continually drawing his eye no matter what was around him. He didn't realize his pace slowed until he felt a thickly gloved hand plant itself on his shoulder, jolting him in surprise.

By the time he jerked away from the masked guard, he discovered that Irons paused to send him a concerned look. "Sir?"

"Its nothing Lieutenant, just." Bindl grimaced. His instincts told him to just ask, but would that offend them? Would they say it was classified or he didn't need to know? In their place he certainly would.

"The TSFs sir?" Irons inquired flatly. Groaning to himself with his eyes squeezed shut, Bindl cleared his throat.

"Pardon me, tee-es-eff?" he repeated, for a moment trying to puzzle out what the acronym meant. A hunch told him it was in english, but that didn't help narrow down the meaning.

"Tactical Surface Fighters. You already saw those IJA Shiranuis, but the other one there is ours, Marine Eff-Eighteen Super Hornets." she explained, the mix of english and french sounding bizarre to his ears. Regardless of how he reacted, she held out an arm towards the open door. He took the hint and kept walking, sending a look towards the faceless guard at his rear.

Inside the vessel, he expected crowded hallways stuffed with sailors busy on countless tasks, like what happened when he was first deployed to Algiers via warship. But to his astonishment the cramped space within was empty, utterly devoid of human life. Hesitating at the door, he frowned as he ran a ran on the wall to inspect it. The air smelled of grease and sweat, far too fresh to have been abandoned recently.

Irons paused again to turn around, her expression frowning once more. "Sir?"

"Lieutenant." Bindl switched to english, reasoning that he'd need it more now. "Where is everyone?"

"Temporarily cleared sir, once you've departed normal activities will resume. Please, this way." she politely urged in french still.

Concerned still, Bindl reluctantly walked after him as straight as he could; a shot of painkiller did wonders for his irate foot, making his pace relatively smooth. It wouldn't last forever though, so he found himself relieved when the point guard stopped ten meters in to pry at a hatch, its hinges squeaking as he opened the thick metal door. Inside he could only see harsh lighting and white walls, nothing to indicate what awaited him.

"This it?" he questioned when he halted.

"Yes sir. Do you need anything? Food or water?" Irons kept a neutral demeanor, but he detected a flash of something across her face at the last part. Whatever it meant, he didn't know.

"I'm alright. Thank you lieutenant." he added after a moment, squaring his shoulders with a low sigh. With three sets of eyes latched onto him, Bindl strode inside, sparing a cautious glance at the door being clanked shut behind him.

For whatever reason, his first thought was this place resembled a boardroom; blue carpet floors, white plastered walls, and tiled ceilings, just like an office building. Electric ports studded the walls, and he noted some lighter sections on the wall at chest height, the size and shape of picture frames. The only furniture was a lone folding chair set in the middle of the room. It felt unwelcoming but not intimidating, nothing like what he feared. For an interrogation room they could've done much worse.

All seemed normal, except for something he assumed wasn't part of the usual decor: a massive sheet of plastic hung up across the middle, cleanly dividing the room in half. Tape lined the edges of both sides, sealing off his side completely.

"They're really serious about disease." he mumbled, frowning in puzzlement. It wasn't like he had the plague; the last real outbreak on European soil was ten years ago, a tiny smallpox epidemic in Zagreb thanks to some MEF tourists, and he was on the opposite side of the continent back then. Prior to that there hadn't been anything worse than a seasonal flu for thirty years. Unless these people had something they didn't want him to catch (which he saw no sign of), then their precautions weren't called for.

Another door creaking open put an end to his musing. From the other side came a group of figures entering from a similar hatch, walking inside at a measured pace towards the room's center.

Bindl stood up straight, taking in their appearances; the first he recognized at once to his slight embarrassment, Major Marimo Jinguuji. Still clad in her flight suit, she put on an olive colored jacket which mercifully covered her torso, much to his relief. Following her was a mustached bald man in green camouflage fatigues, though his outfit wasn't like the guards he'd seen thus far. He looked European and roughly in his thirties, but with a heavily wrinkled face which hinted he didn't smile often. The last was an older man clad in a beige uniform studded by pips and ribbons, his clean shaven features slightly thick but showing signs of being a little gaunt to his puzzlement. He assumed this was the Captain.

All three stopped in the middle, with the oldest taking the center while the others flanked him. Though a mismatched trio if he ever saw one, all three held an unmistakable steel in their forms.

"Greetings." the middle said with a tiny forced smile. "I'm Captain Wayne Avery, commander of the USS Lexington. Welcome aboard Captain Bindl."

"Hello Captain Avery, a pleasure." he nodded towards him, trying to stifle a grimace. There was no way he could listen to english and not feel suspicious. Still, there was something that bugged him. "You said USS? I thought you were a Japanese force?"

That term seemed familiar, but for as much as Bindl wracked his brain he couldn't remember where he heard it.

"Yes, United States Ship. I apologize for the poor accommodations so far Captain. Until we're certain the risk of disease contamination from either side is minimal, I'm afraid face to face contact is out of the question." Captain Avery answered regretfully as he briefly rolled his shoulders. "Now, while I'm certain you have many questions, I want to assure you that you are in no danger. Whatever you need I'll provide as best I can."

"A valid concern, and I have indeed many questions. If you are willing to answer them, of course." Bindl wrinkled his face ever so slightly. A gesture from the man acted as an invite, and with disguised relief he sat down in the uncomfortable chair, feeling the throbbing pain throughout his body subside.

"Before that, I'd like to introduce my aides here. You've already met Major Jinguuji of the IJA." Marimo nodded flatly with her arms crossed. "and this is Captain Gerard Bressette of the French Armed Forces, our liaison and interpreter." the other man nodded too, but he didn't miss the cold look he shot them. There was something quite unfriendly between him and them.

Nevertheless, Bindl raised a brow. "United States, Imperial Japan. Who are you, and why do you go by nations that no longer exist?"

The change was immediate; Avery and Marimo visibly froze, displaying a tiny shudder which they clamped down tightly. Both their features went uncomfortably pale. Bressette raised his brow, sparing a glance while shifting his weight.

"Also, last I checked the core province of France doesn't possess an army, beyond it's provincial militia formations. It was reorganized into the EU Military almost a hundred and twenty years ago. So I am a bit skeptical towards your assertion that this Captain is what you say he is." Bindl went on, catching Bressette scowling immediately. These lies were rather poorly researched in his opinion.

"Excuse me?" Marimo blurted out in clear unease.

Avery composed himself, but the stunned look didn't fade. "I'm afraid I don't understand Captain."

"The Republic of Japan was occupied in the Second Pacific War by the Britannian Empire seven years ago. It's culture and traditions were subjugated, the region itself renamed to Area Eleven. According to rumors from Japanese refugees who fled to Europe via Russia, the Britannians enacted widespread genocide throughout the nation. Those who survived were enslaved in a brutal caste system, where the common citizen possess almost no rights. To this day the Britannians commit atrocities on their people and will continue to do so." Bindl wrinkled his expression dangerously upon reciting the well known information, before it softened a minute degree. "If I remember correctly, I think the United States was the name for a short lived proto-nation two hundred years ago, before it's rebellion was crushed. Where it was is today called Area One, better known as the Britannian Homeland."

Avery's expression shrank from being stunned, hands rippling at his sides. Marimo dropped her jaw in undisguised horror, going so far as to recoil, like she just found out a loved one perished. Even Bressette looked disturbed.

"I... I-I'm sorry." Avery collected himself, taking a deep breath. "Who's responsible for all that? This Britannia?"

"Yes, Britannia. I am sorry but did you really not know this?" Bindl crossed his arms with a frown. "The scale of Britannian crimes might be not fully public, but the failure of Washington's Rebellion is common knowledge. It's taught in European history classes, even if it usually isn't treated as a major topic."

"That's..." Avery closed his eyes before standing up straighter, with Marimo starting to look downright furious. "No, it didn't... America doesn't exist here?"

"America? Of course it exists. Even if they would insist on calling both continents just Britannia." he replied dismissively. Still, the way each of them reacted had him eying the door.

Bressette coughed into a fist. "Perhaps this wasn't the paradise we were hoping for."

Marimo took a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut. "Can you tell me-us, tell us more about Britannia? I'm assuming the troops who attacked us on the shore were them."

"The Holy Britannian Empire is one the world's three primary Superpowers. It is an absolute monarchy who spits on the Revolution's democratic and human values, expanding its borders by means of cruelty and barbarism not seen since the Mongol Conquest. It is our enemy and so far." Bindl spat out the last part. "I have seen nothing that disproves the reports of their brutality."

Unlike the other two Bressette grimaced. "What about their military strength? Numbers, placement, hostility? Whatever you can tell us."

His expression faltered. "Enough to wage war on three continents. Facing the EU are at least tens of millions of soldiers. Their armies are currently advancing through the European protectorate of Algeria after conquering Morocco. They've blockaded half of Southern Africa in preparation of invasion. We checked their advance into Anatolia weeks ago. The situation in the Far East is holding for now, for what its worth."

Sighing to himself, he leaned back in his seat.

"For their hostility, heh, you've seen it for yourself."

Despite his tone, Bindl couldn't help but frown thoughtfully. Not one reacted to the schoolroom level explanation with familiarity; there was horror, there was shock, but none showed even a hint of recognition. Only Bressette didn't look outright furious, with Marimo especially flicking her gaze away with her face twisting. Even through her jacket he saw her chest shuddering from trying to control her breathing.

"So, judging from your faces, you didn't make up anything you told me. I'd call it impossible, but something in my gut tells me you are serious. Well, that and seeing how you shredded a Britannian scout company shows there's more to you than meets the eye." Bindl leaned forward to plant his elbows on his knees, hands brought together as he sent a puzzled look to them. "Would you mind explaining then why you were patrolling the coast, or do you have more questions?"

"Yes, but-" Marimo started, but she sent a look towards her companions, receiving a nod. "We should probably tell you a bit about us now."

Avery cleared his throat in a clear signal. "There's no easy way to say this, so I'll just get it out. We're from another world."

A snort proceeded a short chuckle, Bindl shaking his head for a moment before noticing their faces didn't change. Then he just stared at them. "That's not a particularly good joke you know. If you want to craft yourself a cover story, at least make it somewhat believable."

"It's true. Believe me, it's a big pill to swallow for our side." Avery insisted, rolling his shoulders as Bressette again gave him a look.

"Really? You expect me to believe that you are from another world. You certainly don't look like aliens to me." Bindl snorted dismissively. "Because I expected extraterrestrial life to look like little grey men, or perhaps sentient bugs."

His composure fractured a small amount when all three froze at the mention. Marimo in particular coughed nervously, something flashing over her face. "We've faced aliens, in fact that's why we're here."

"Good God, you're telling the truth aren't you?" Bindl leaned back, suddenly getting the feeling that he needed a stiff drink after this. And he generally didn't touch alcohol.

"The giant robots weren't a tip off?" Bressette commented dryly.

"All my flight was doing was atmospheric testing and electromagnetic frequency scans. We weren't supposed to find anyone, let alone get into a fight." Marimo explained grimly. "I, we, hoped this wouldn't happen."

"Then… I am not qualified to listen to this." Bindl gulped, feeling the blood drain from his face. "Or relay back messages to High Command. In fact, I'm certain that would be the appropriate thing to do now."

"Yes it is." Avery nodded shakily, recovering quickly. "Though before you leave, I have to ask that you take this to your leaders." Avery gestured at his side, and the door he came from opened again, revealing a masked soldier walking in. He handed over a laminated booklet and left just as fast as he arrived.

"Thanks." Bindl glanced over the plastic front, but he looked back at the trio milling in place now.

There was a certain tired aura to the trio, as if they were all exhausted beyond measure. Something he could more than sympathize with, remembering the refugee slums in Algiers, their despairing and broken inhabitants watching his unit before he left for the front. He recalled the mangled state their super Knightmares, Tactical Surface Fighters he corrected himself, were in, and the absolutely serious way they spoke about fighting aliens, as hard as it was to believe. They were in no state to leave on an expedition.

"I apologize for not taking you serious at first. If it is any consolidation, I pray that you are indeed here with good intentions, and that your fortunes here will be better than in your home." Even as he offered a sympathetic look, his features wrinkled. "If you don't mind my question, what exactly are your goals here?"

Avery and Marimo shared a look, and Bressette returned it when they swung his way. It wasn't one he would term cheerful. She cleared her throat again, showing something different from the anger earlier; it was almost… bitterness?

"Captain Bindl, we've been at war for thirty years now. We… we've lost." she steadied herself, like she was ashamed to even admit it. "Back home, Earth is a wasteland now. There's about two million people left altogether."

"Two million people-" he rose from his seat, unapologetically gawking at them. Only two million? There were roughly five and a half billion people in the world; if they had anywhere close to as many, then being reduced to just that indicated a disaster unlike anything he could imagine. Such a loss of life, his mind refused to even conceptualize it.

Bindl dropped his head onto a hand and just stared emptily at the floor. He wanted to say something else, but no words left his mouth. How could one possibly reply to that? If it was true-

No. The looks on their faces, the way all three of them behaved, it couldn't be an act.

"That's why we're here Captain, what I want you to pass on to your superiors." Avery's face was grim, struggling past his pride before Bindl's eyes. "For all intents and purposes, we're refugees looking for a new home. Now, can you help us?"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Just wanna say thanks to everyone who read and reviewed this, means a lot to me.**

* * *

It began with a ripple.

A mere haze in the air was how it started, almost indistinguishable from a typical heat borne mirage. To an untrained observer it was merely a trick of the light. Even for those well versed in such phenomena, where it took place made concentration difficult, owing in part to the calm sea, but mainly due to the sun drenched island nearby. Perhaps not the most appropriate location to host such a thing, yet here it was by the whim of its creator.

From a wide pier a few kilometers away, workers and guests could observe the roiling patch of air without obstruction. All other ships in the area were moved out of the way hours ago, save only for an EU Frigate keeping a watchful eye some distance away; a depressingly easy task to ensure nowadays. The only aircraft in the skies were two reconnaissance planes circling the area, one cruising over the island and the other sticking far out to sea, both craft not only recording the occasion, but also making sure no Britannian scouts caught wind of this. A bit superfluous given the several radar stations in viewing distance, but not unwarranted.

The shimmer darkened, moving past the point of mere illusion. Slivers of inky material wormed in the air to form squirming incoherent tendrils, swaying and writhing like maggots infesting carrion. They multiplied and filled up a huge space even as countless threads shriveled up and died. Their conjuring also spawned a peculiar thrumming in the air, so low it wasn't actually detectable by the human ear, but carrying enough power to rattle bones from kilometers away. Reality itself seemed to protest it's existence, but the incursion wasn't denied so easily. Defying the souring air, the darkness struggled to grow into a massive form, expanding at a stuttering uneven rate.

It was a disconcerting thing to witness, but whatever discomfort anyone felt paled in comparison to what followed.

The dark tendrils coalesced, squeezing and morphing together to create an enormous black circle. It had to be dozens of meters wide, a little less than halfway submerged in the water. One side was a morass of shifting black smoke devoid of patterns, while the other was simply a blank space, as if there was a hole in the universe itself. Its edges both in the air and water may have roiled and trembled whatever matter it touched, but the center was unnaturally still.

Such an incredible yet disturbing sight. So much so that when something came from the void's center, the sheer normality of the intruder served only to highlight its otherworldliness: first a grey metal prow, then a flat deck with an unmistakable set of turreted guns and launchers, a stocky conn tower followed by a radio mast, and then a sloping array of weapons leading to the rear, the last of which exited the void without a sound. The hundred meter long warship rocked on the waves before steadying itself, churning up the seas in its wake while a tiny flag fluttered on the back, that of a rising sun. Like its commander wanted to get away as fast as possible, either for safety reasons or out of nauseated unease.

There was a low rumble which reverberated through air and flesh alike, and then the puncture in existence faded into wisps of vanishing smoke.

Standing at the base of a control tower, the first of many observers started to clap. A massive grin split his friendly expression, eyes wide and mouth hanging open as he applauded in sheer wonder. With his tie flapping in the wind, he tucked it back into his suit's jacket before sending a wry look at his companions, chuckling under a warm gust.

"Wow, color me impressed." said one Monsieur Renard. Chipper and open even into his forties, he showed an almost childlike glee at the otherworldly event he just witnessed. His short brown hair waved from the breeze, while his clean shaven face remained completely unaffected, and his tan hinted the sun wouldn't bother him.

"Admittedly it's a sight. Not a pleasant one." Captain Bressette replied, hands on the railing as he glanced his way. In spite of the heat the bald Frenchman from another world kept his dress uniform immaculate, his grey formal outfit covered by a number of medals unaffected by sun or sea spray. Oddly he hadn't tanned a bit despite spending several days on this side.

"I have to disagree. Sure its a bit strange I'll say, but for what it is, and what it represents? Incredible." Renard shrugged with a full smile, leaning forward to see the next watcher.

Lieutenant Irons shrugged as nonchalantly as she could, her nondescript white uniform almost completely unwrinkled from how little she moved. "Its a bit different experiencing it up close sir."

"Oh? Do tell." Renard leaned closer, smiling without minding her atrocious accent.

"Its… difficult to describe sir." Irons tried to downplay, but to no avail.

"C'mon, tell me. Its not painful is it?" he freely probed, switching between the two.

"Bit tingly." Bressette admitted.

"I'd love to try for myself." Renard said while turning back to the bay. Doing so let him miss the hollow looks on his impromptu companions, the pair seconded to him after the Lexington docked at a supertanker grade berth not far from here. Both the ship and this pair were under guard by mistrustful Europeans the entire time.

Up ahead was the new ship, keeping a relatively slow pace so to let the much larger Frigate keep up. It looked to be a Destroyer, well armed and armored though sporting some unsightly rust spots on the hull, with its growing number of crew on the deck scrambling for their endless tasks. Remarkably like the dock workers occasionally bustling nearby the delegation. Dreary as it may be, a life at sea was never dull.

"Amazing, it's almost identical to one of our warships. What did you tell me this one was called?" Renard turned to ask.

"I didn't say anything sir, but she's IJN. Imperial Navy." Irons squinted at the ship's profile. "I wanna say its a Minegumo class, we did a few drills with them a couple months back. They don't hog up the dry docks like the Yamatos or Iowas do."

"Before the Battle of Seattle? I recall hearing those ships were part of the task force that stopped the Carrier Classes." Bressette offhandedly mentioned, sparing her an unidentifiable glance. After a moment she nodded slowly.

"I sense personal history, just how deep is the grudge between your nations? Ah well, we're all friends here." Still grinning like a fool, he swiveled to his last companion. "And what about you Herr sourpuss?"

"I have no opinion." Captain Bindl stiffly replied a body's length away, grabbing the handrail and only just avoiding a grimace. He too was in his dress uniform, a dark blue and red outfit complete with a stately cap and his medals, the top of his jacket unbuttoned for the warm weather. Unlike them, his body language brimmed with tension; why shouldn't it, for no words could express how badly he didn't want to be here.

Renard leaned onto the handrail and laughed. "Rest easy Monsieur Bindl, we're all friends here. If you're so worried about offending me don't be."

"Don't worry about me, but be happy my brother isn't here. He's, ah, a bit uptight." Bindl tried a weak laugh. Still, he was very glad his insufferable genius of a younger sibling wasn't here. Things were bad enough with this alternate Earth madness and the apparent matter with aliens.

Regardless, Bindl had every reason to be a deeply unhappy man. Taken from his unit the very minute he returned to base, he was treated by medics quickly yet thoroughly, then he was wrung dry in front of the NAC's staff for two days straight, and once that was done he was grilled by a pair well dressed yet soulless DRM agents for every detail. So many questions, he thought he would lose his mind. After three days of interrogation and then suffering sleepless nights (and the one time he actually slept he had a nightmare about those staring agents, their eyes…), he woke up to find the General of the North African Command personally reassigning him. He even offered congratulations for the prestigious posting of a military attache.

Never before did he regret being a teetotaler more than that day.

"Suit yourself. Soldiers, can't ever just relax. Always have to be so super serious." Renard let out a dramatic sigh, but after a moment he abruptly blinked. "No offense."

Irons and Bressette coughed in unison, then gave each other an odd look. Fortunately a powerful horn going off put an end to conversation.

The Destroyer pulled up to the dock at a careful speed, maneuvering into place with what had to be practiced ease. Although harbor boats edged nearby for help, whoever was at the helm managed to get the ship lined up almost perfectly, if a bit closer than regulations permitted. Moments after the low rumble of its engines cut out, the crewmen on deck swiftly moored it in place as twin anchors dropped.

"Well, shall we?" Renard cheerfully waved, taking the lead for their tiny procession, plus a couple suit clad guards who gave everyone suspicious looks. Last in line was a groaning Bindl, who tried to calm himself during the march but failed miserably.

More and more he regretted taking up that woman's offer, seeing as the NAC's staff tore him a new one for his 'undiplomatic responses' while onboard the carrier. Which made his assignment here all the more puzzling, seeing as he expected to be imprisoned, reassigned to the Arctic Circle, or just dragged behind headquarters and shot for what happened. But instead of that he was here to personally witness a historic event. If rumors were true however, then he shivered at the idea of being a pawn between the military and civilian government. And to believe he once thought that training a bunch of green troops would be his greatest challenge; he groaned at his own naivety.

In spite of that Bindl spared a look at his polished boots marching normally on the concrete, missing the limp which haunted him for weeks. Then he glanced at the ocean horizon, what he knew was maybe twenty kilometers from the top vacation destination in all of Europe. A permit and a car was all he needed to visit a veritable paradise on Earth.

"Thank God for small favors." he mumbled. Just as he said that he felt a tremor through his boots, breaking his stride from the unexpected rumble. Raising a brow, he glanced up to discover the others giving the ground puzzled looks, but when he peered to some dock workers nearby operating a large forklift he internally shrugged.

In front of the ramp to the ship, a line of sharply dressed parade troops hefted rifles, their appearances and postures utterly impeccable. A pudgy Colonel standing with his arms clasped behind his back nodded approvingly, as did another suit dressed old man who smiled at everyone, with the former sparing a quick look at the latter. No one close by outwardly reacted to the sailors busy just a short distance away, all of whom showed visible asiatic features under their helmets.

Bindl's party arrived just as a group left a hatch, coming into the sunlight to hesitate a moment. Whatever bothered the group of five or six people didn't hold them up for long, and plainly didn't affect a few suited guards (several of them women he noted) forming the perimeter. There was no sign of clean suits or the like, which he assumed meant they determined there was no disease risk, or that it was so small it wasn't worth the effort. Even if a plague did accidentally spread, he had solid confidence in the EU's public health system to handle it.

Coming to a stop as far away from the Colonel as he could, Bindl tried hard not to stare; these bodyguards looked just like their European counterparts, uncannily so. Nonetheless a few of the suit clad older men and women strode across the ramp, setting foot on EU soil to present themselves before their greeters.

Without reservation Renard stepped forward to stick out a hand. "Ladies and Gentlemen, my name is Ambassador Maël Renard of the EU Diplomatic Corp, and may I be the first to welcome you to Mallorca Naval Base."

Bindl was surprised at his english reply, partly because of just how good his pronunciation was; he sensed that he could've hidden his accent entirely if he tried. Of the newcomers, one toed between his counterparts to return the handshake.

"Thank you for this opportunity Monsieur Renard, I am Minister Ryan Poole of the Canadian Department of Global Affairs." he greeted in english as well, giving him an open smile. "And may I say this is a wonderful place." he added in french.

"Please, let us stick to english for now. For the sake of our guests." Renard cheerfully insisted.

"Of course. These are my counterparts, Vice President Dillan Asher of the United States." Minister Poole gestured towards a fiftyish anglo man who looked oddly thin and pale, before switching to a similarly aged and dressed fellow on his opposite flank, though he had a grey full beard with his flat demeanor. "And Secretary Pierre de Brumaire of the French Sixth Republic."

"Wonderful to meet you all gentlemen." Renard shook both their hands, but once he let go his brow tilted ever so slightly. "Forgive my question, but I was told there would be four representatives?"

"Ah yes." something unidentifiable flashed over Poole's expression. "That matter is… more complicated than we initially told you. There was a change of plans during our departure."

Commotion from the same hatch caught their attention, though with his placement Bindl had to lean over to see. A couple guards exited the thick door, but he immediately recognized these weren't the same as the others, as their own defensive reactions showed; the lead one was a young man in his twenties, clad in an elaborate black and gold lined uniform, with long bangs obscuring his face. He looked and acted like he was ready to crack some skulls, more so than his similarly dressed companion. He raised a brow at the escort detail, uncomfortably reminded of news broadcasts from overseas.

His thoughts froze at a third individual exiting, this one moving slower yet much so much more confident. Unlike the others, she, definitely a she by his reckoning, wore an old fashioned set of robes that made her look like she stepped out of a nineteenth century painting. Which only served to accentuate her waist length purple hair, thick and full as it terminated at a regal tie on top of her hime cut, held in place by a golden band. Before it however was a stunning sight atop her head: a circle with twin prongs along its flanks, showing off a stylized dawn sun.

Bindl needed a few seconds to discover just how young she was; this girl couldn't be more than twenty, and he had ample reason to assume she wasn't even that old. But in spite of that, she carried herself with every bit of certainty as her counterparts, her stride even and unhurried.

Poole cleared his throat. "Monsieur Renard, may I present her Highness Yuuhi Koubuin, Shogun of Imperial Japan."

A queen? Bindl mouthed under his breath. Plentiful awe didn't stop him from feeling the urge to sneer; excesses and systematic corruption from the Britannians made the very idea of royalty a distasteful one. But luckily for his sake he clamped down on the feeling at once. There was too much riding on this to get upset over Japanese institutional inequality, and if he insulted the delegation he might as well kneel down and ask God for forgiveness before he was shot.

Shogun Yuuhi (Koubuin he mentally corrected, thanking an old textbook he found between debriefings) halted beside her counterparts to give a small bow. "Greetings Monsieur Renard. On behalf of all our nations, I thank you for this chance to come together."

Her accent in english was rather thick, but she still pronounced each word with measured care. Even if he was put off by her, Renard just smiled and returned a small bow, eyes closed as he did so.

"I thank you for coming here in person your Highness. But please forgive my bluntness, surely it would've been preferable to send a lower ranking member of your government to this conference. Instead of putting your own safety at risk." he spoke diplomatically, his gaze flicking from side to side. Bindl was sure he was worried about the same thing he just went through, though he expected that honor guards of all people had more self control than him.

"It would have been yes. But given the stakes, I thought it prudent to ensure that I would not be making a grave mistake for my nation. You understand." Koubuin explained simply.

Secretary de Brumeire cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should get to the conference location."

"I agree." Asher nodded in agreement.

Renard straightened out his posture. "Of course. If you'll come with me ladies and gentlemen?"

As he led the vastly expanded party off to some awaiting limousines, Bindl waited to follow at their rear, letting Bressette and Irons pull ahead. He wished this was the part where he vacated the area to make himself scarce, but alas, he was under orders to advise Renard if he needed it. Officially it was due to his familiarity with two of the four nations here, but privately he wasn't so sure. There had to be better qualified people for this, someone else to be here to make history, and not cringe when he met the eyes of the young man guarding the Shogun and shuddered; there was something about that boy's intense cold stare that made him shiver.

Taking a deep breath, he internally bemoaned his luckless circumstances. At least until he let his gaze wander, forgetting his troubles when something caught his eye, doing a double take to make sure he wasn't mistaken.

"Major Jinguuji?"

Flinching unexpectedly, Marimo snapped to him with an arm curling, staring blankly until she recognized him. "Captain… Bindl was it?"

"Yes, ah-" Upon noticing they stopped, he cleared his throat and started walking, and after a moment she returned to his side. His eyes flicked over to examine her along the way; instead of that revealing flight suit which distracted him too much, she wore a nondescript green dress uniform complete with a tie, although the medals pinned to her chest didn't escape his notice. A lot of medals in fact.

Major Jinguuji coughed into a fist. "I didn't expect to find you here."

"Neither did I." he replied in english as well, as much as he didn't like it. "Do you mind if I ask?"

"You first." she curtly turned around.

Bindl groaned, making sure to keep his voice down when they reached the cars. "I'm sure its due to internal politics."

"Understandable. For me, her Highness believes my counsel would be of use." Major Jinguuji said with plain disbelief. Up ahead Renard ducked inside the luxurious car, the cue for a chauffeur to slam the door closed behind him. There were two other limos ready, one of which he was destined for, though he would feel much more at home in one of the dozen VBLs parked in a line nearby. Even a couple gunships that were sure to be escorting them sounded better.

"Yes, her… Highness." Bindl slowly nodded.

"Is there a problem?" she asked with a frown, sending him an odd look.

"Nothing of importance." he shook his head. "Just some outdated notions that need to be handled eventually."

Major Jinguuji overtook his pace to swivel towards him, wearing a look of cold indifference. "It's my understanding that you Europeans put all your nobility to death a hundred years ago."

Something about the way she said that made a shiver crawl up his spine. Nevertheless he squared his shoulders and put on a strong front, unwilling to back down.

"Ones who foolishly kept their titles were given no quarter, those who abdicated peacefully found the change to democracy a wise choice." he replied stiffly.

"Democracy." she repeated, narrowing her eyes. "You mean accept French dominance."

"I'm German Major, and I can easily say the Revolution was the best thing to ever happen to my homeland. In any case, insinuating that you'll be forced to destroy your culture for EU aid is baseless paranoia." Bindl challenged.

"We will see." Major Jinguuji said darkly, turning away when a guard signaled her.

Bindl watched her go, barely reining in his scowl. But after just a moment he dropped his head and groaned.

"I'm an idiot." he mumbled. He always got riled up at the idea of monarchists; people who spat on equality, trampling on the freedoms of man, and then they had the gall to label democracy barbaric. Jinguuji's attitude reminded him too much of the brainwashed serfs on the news spouting Britannian propaganda, especially those who parroted their bastard Emperor's speech months ago. Not much infuriated him more than that arrogant speech, boasting of their oppression and mocking Europe for being soft. But she wasn't like that. At least he hoped she wasn't.

Upon recognizing where that train of thought was going, Bindl glanced towards the last vehicle, just in time for the pudgy Colonel to spear him with a cold gaze. Swallowing a lump, he hurried towards the car.

* * *

"But, why?"

"Beats me, apparently the councilors want to have a lot of fans watch them nail this. Election seasons coming up soon you know."

Bindl frowned as the fellow captain turned forward from speaking to him, stepping into an indicated spot for three guards to inspect him, arms held out for them to pat down from top to bottom. He had to soften his expression when the next team cleared a suit clad official and waved him on, sighing under his breath as he too was vetted. They checked his pockets, they poked at his clothes, one waved a squawking magnetic wand over him to discover his medals were surprisingly made of metal, and another even pried his mouth open to shine a tiny flashlight inside.

Clamping shut once he finished, he cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, we were all searched twice now."

"We have our orders sir." replied one man in a weary tone, moving on to removing his shoes for inspection. When Bindl winced he shot him a suspicious look.

"Injury on my foot, just had surgery a couple days ago." he answered, groaning when he inspected his limb even more. The chilled linoleum wasn't helping matters, especially since he had yet to adjust from the warmth outside.

By all rights the meeting between EU officials and the foreign representatives should've happened behind closed doors. In the governor's office, onboard the Frigate still patrolling on the coast, even the Lexington would've sufficed. But for reasons that baffled him to no end, the conference was being held in the main base's conference hall, open to be seen by dozens of people who lacked the requisite clearance level, himself included. Whichever fool came up with the boneheaded idea to invite guests to a secret meeting needed firing; it was bad enough that they were being very reckless with security, what with tearing holes in reality so close to nine hundred thousand people.

A yelp made him glance over, discovering an irate looking woman harassing a guard very close to her legs. He was confused until he saw a card dangling from a strap around her neck, at which point he rolled his eyes; they were even inviting the press? He felt a sliver of relief at seeing no cameras, hoping they had sense enough to not broadcast this conference live.

When he was cleared for the third time, Bindl was unceremoniously shuffled inside the room, taking a second to note two arrays of chairs surrounding a set of tables, alongside some equipment and booklets on the center, where he assumed they'd be actually holding the talks. An adjunct intercepted him before he got far, wordlessly directing him into a front row seat. Trying to pick one further back didn't work, with the junior officer planting a hand on his shoulder to firmly direct him, even when he gave him a displeased look. A helpless shrug was his only reply.

He would've gotten something to drink, but for some reason there was no catering stand, what would be a serious oversight for events far less important than now. Still his chair was comfortable without being too relaxing, and the place wasn't crowded by any means. When he glanced at the fluorescents above he decided they could've done worse, like host it in the middle of Palma De Mallorca. Bindl had no real complaints after he respectfully sat down, nothing that wouldn't come off as petty anyway.

"No champagne, really?" someone muttered behind him. He resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder, knowing it wouldn't help. And with a Colonel situated a few chairs away he needed a very good reason to tell that man to stuff it.

It took the security teams another fifteen minutes to process everyone, making the guest count come out to around thirty people or so. Fifteen minutes spent waiting, hearing the man behind him quietly complain, and listening to quiet chatter, all enough to bore him to sleep. All Bindl could do was shift his seat and look for people he recognized, a task he fully accomplished inside of a minute; he spied a few familiar faces seated on the room's opposite side, but mercifully he didn't see Jinguuji. A good thing, since he idly wondered if it was possible to set someone on fire via staring. But for as amusing as that thought was however, he reminded himself that these people were from another world. They could be mind readers or spit acid for all he knew.

Such thoughts didn't change his opinion that he had no business being here. And they definitely failed to do anything about his ennui, which only vanished when at last the guards locked the main doors from the outside, clanking shut with an air of finality.

Less than a minute went by before a side door opened, admitting the guests of the hour; two Councilors from Parliament (he sourly noted one was a candidate he didn't vote for the last election), Renard looking as cheerful as ever, and then the far world's representatives striding in with the last being Koubuin, badly standing out in the lineup. The gathered people were silent as the VIPs crossed the room, the only sounds they made were squirms to more comfortable spots and someone coughing. But silence didn't mean disinterest, as a glance from side to side confirmed many observers picked up at their appearances.

"When did we invite the Chinese?" mumbled another someone to his right.

Once the VIPs arrived to their spots every guest rose from their chairs, Bindl finding himself moving quicker than most. He expected a short flag honoring ceremony, a speech, something grand and courteous service to welcome the newcomers. But he was pleasantly surprised at a Councilor merely gesturing around in their direction. The guests sank in a rough wave, and once they were down each VIP took a seat.

The same Councilor brought his hands together. "Ladies and Gentlemen, let me be the first to welcome you to the European Union province of Mallorca. I am Prime Minister Bērziņš, here on behalf of President Laval. My aide here is Councilor Klose, and I believe you're familiar with Ambassador Renard already. The President expresses his sincerest regret for not being able to attend."

All four nodded, with Minister Poole bringing up his hands.

"I thank you for your welcome Prime Minister. While I'm assuming you know who we are, I'll briefly introduce ourselves. I'm Minister Ryan Poole of Canada, this is Secretary Pierre De Brumaire of the French Republic." he gestured to the elderly Frenchman beside him, though murmurs followed his introduction. "Vice President Dillan Thomas of the United States of America." this time the murmuring was louder. "And this her Highness Shogun Yuuhi Koubuin of Imperial Japan."

An unexpected silence came over the observers at the announcement. Until the same man at Bindl's rear again whispered, his tone dripping with contempt. "An Eleven? What's an Eleven doing here?"

"Together, we represent the New United Nations on behalf of our respective nations." Poole finished.

"I see. Welcome Gentlemen and Lady." Bērzinš nodded anyway, at the same time as Renard but a heartbeat faster than Klose.

When Renard cleared his throat however, he earned a guarded look from his counterparts. "Prime Minister, before we move on, there is one matter we need to take care of."

Momentary confusion ghosted across Bērzinš' expression, which narrowed at seeing Asher reach into his pockets to withdraw a couple items, what looked like small headsets. Bindl tensed a minute degree, but he forced himself to back down. There were a half dozen guards within five meters of the table, if he had a weapon they would deal with him long before he could.

"Most of your speech was lost on two of our guests. They're not fluent in French I'm afraid." Renard went on as Asher handed over one device to Koubuin, both he and her fitting them around their ears and mouths. "Those are real time translators, built for international military cooperation. Wonderful little tools I've gathered, if perishingly rare nowadays. The factory which made these no longer exists so I was told."

With a click Asher and Koubuin nodded. When she spoke next it was in her native language, but out of the tiny speaker came a synthetic voice Bindl recognized from the Algerian coastline.

"Prime Minister Bērzinš, I thank you for meeting with us." Koubuin told him with a tilt of her head.

He blinked repeatedly, but he regained his composure in mere seconds. "Indeed Shogun Koubuin, my apologies for the misunderstanding. Let me take the chance to apologize for the lack of decorum, you only gave us a day to prepare for such a formal event."

"Given the circumstances we can hardly fault you for it. In any case, should we get down to business?" Asher proposed in a slightly different artificial voice.

"That seems wise." Councilor Klose spoke up, bringing his hands together on the table surface. "May I inquire to what goal the New United Nations has here?"

De Brumaire cleared his throat, exchanging a brief look with his counterparts before speaking. "If we're disregarding formality, then I shall be as clear as possible. We wish to evacuate all our populations to this world, as our home is a blasted wasteland almost incapable of supporting life. The fates of approximately two point two million people depend upon the results of this conference."

Silence reigned in the room once again. Although Bindl heard the explanation before, he had to steady himself at the thoughts bubbling up. Even days later he gained no further success in trying to process it; he just couldn't reduce two million people to a number on a piece of paper, not without imagining endless fields of graves. Or if their descriptions were accurate, than something out of the Old Testament.

"Well now, I wasn't anticipating… that." Bērzinš nodded slowly, brow raised in sheer surprise.

Without warning Renard leaned back in his seat and grinned. "Refreshingly straightforward. Should be simple to implement."

He kept his half smile when his counterparts shot him a look, as well as the other side narrowing their brows at his flippant tone.

"We are aware that is a monumental task. Helping to relocate this many people would be a challenge in peacetime, never mind with a war on." Poole stepped in diplomatically.

"Forgive my inquiry, but how did you accomplish traveling between worlds?" Klose asked carefully. Each representative shared a glance, though Asher cleared his throat.

"It was done by means of a recently completed prototype device, created by the joint scientific efforts between the United States and Canada. It's officially called the McKay-Carter Causality Interference Mechanism." he looked uncomfortable with the name, and the others frowned at the long string of terms. "Though it's been informally called the Bridge. I can't explain how it works, partly because I have little understanding of it myself. The important detail is that it creates a stable gateway between one universe to another. Though due to technical restrictions and power requirements, we're unable to go beyond a certain radius, limited to the western Mediterranean region."

"Fascinating." Bērzinš mumbled.

To Bindl's side another someone muttered, "Bollocks."

"Which ties into my second question, why here?" Klose waved his hands a small amount of emphasis. "If you could access one universe, then there must be others. Hundreds, maybe millions of them."

"This wasn't the first world we explored. There were a dozen others we sent probes to, and many more that couldn't support human life in any capacity." Asher admitted. "But this was the first viable option we discovered. The rest were… unacceptable."

"If we had more time, we wouldn't be coming to you on these terms." De Brumaire said simply.

"Why?" Klose pressed with a frown. Based on the murmurs from the crowd, they were curious too, and Bindl was no exception.

Poole cleared his throat, visibly steadying himself this time. "This world is free of the enemy which pushed us to the brink of extinction. What changed our species forever, and carries the blame for the ruination of our world. The fact this place is perfectly habitable was a secondary consideration to that condition."

Koubuin exchanged a look, though Poole waved a hand at her to tell her no, while De Brumaire sent him a cold glance. From his seat Bindl leaned forward a minute degree; he too was curious to find out more about what caused such a devastating death toll at their home. They told him they faced aliens, but was that really true?

"We call them BETA." Asher stood up to hand over a booklet stack, which Renard accepted to pass along. "Beings of Extraterrestrial origin which are Adversary of human race. Alien invaders, for lack of a better term."

Whispering picked up from around Bindl, glancing to find most of his counterparts talking amongst themselves in evident astonishment. There was a strong undercurrent of disbelief however, based on their tone and expressions.

"Aliens? Insanity."

"They're lying."

"What if it's true? Mankind can't be alone in the universe."

Bindl himself didn't join in, regretting not reading through the provided booklet when he had the chance; odds stated everything he needed to know was in that gift, and it was taken from him once he returned. But even without that, just looking at their TSFs hinted to him that they weren't designed with human opponents in mind.

And the other side, where the guests from that world were seated, they were deathly silent.

On his part Bērzinš just frowned as he flipped through their document, not acting dismissive but not showing the raw concern of Renard either. "You'd understand why I'd be somewhat skeptical of this claim."

All four winced, with De Brumaire having to rein in a scowl before taking a deep breath. Koubuin again composed herself to speak.

"Of course. However you feel, I assure you it is the truth. We fought the BETA for thirty years, we have lost-" she coughed, for the first time her composure seemed to crack. "Have lost everything. Billions died, entire nations devoured, and now, we have so few options left. You can speak to every individual who came with us, and not one can claim they have not lost someone dear to them."

The mumbler at his back scoffed. "Sounds just like those lazy bums who ruined downtown Amsterdam. Elevens just love to gush about their suffering."

This time Bindl was going to twist around to give that fool a piece of his mind. But regretfully, Renard taking over stopped him from doing more than move his shoulders. Not that the impulse left his thoughts.

"Regardless of… that, there is one teensy problem with accommodating your people here. Our own war is no mere schoolyard scuffle." he said with a helpless shrug. Each one seemed to sag at the news, though Bindl expected them to already know. But then, there was a difference between a report and a nation's leaders spelling it out.

"Yes, it's a nasty affair that's only going to get worse." Klose added regretfully. "Our enemy is the Holy Britannian Empire, a vast oppressive empire from the New World. This isn't the first conflict we've fought with them, but its without a doubt the greatest one yet. In the past few years they've launched wars of conquest against several countries, some of whom have already fallen. There's fighting in the Moroccan Republic, Algeria, the Middle Eastern Federation, the Russian Federation, and… the Republic of Japan."

Koubuin took a deep breath, a slight tremor to her form. Bindl could all too easily imagine her clenching her fists; spoiled royal or not, finding out her country was taken over by genocidal slavers couldn't have been easy.

"Is there no one else fighting them?" De Brumaire questioned darkly.

"At the moment, just us and our allies in Africa. We're hard pressed to hold their advances on two continents, even with the Russians giving a good showing in the Far East." Klose explained, clenching a fist before loosening it. "There's resistance movements in all their conquered territories of course, but few of them are more than just a nuisance."

"In that lies the primary reason for my reticence in granting your countries sanctuary." Bērzinš crossed his arms with a frown.

"Can we negotiate with the Britannian empire?" Poole asked quickly.

"You can, but know they've violated most of the treaties they've signed with us. The EU is a Superpower, so I imagine what they'll do to you will be far worse. The reports we've gotten from Russia, the Middle East and Morocco suggest they'll likely not even entertain your request, much less honor it." Bērzinš dismissed.

"We do have means of forcing them to the negotiating table." Asher hinted, the way he said that causing Bindl to raise his brow. Something about his tone made him anxious for reasons he couldn't explain.

"Pardon my disbelief, but your oversized Knightmares aren't enough by a long shot. No, the solution to your dilemma is simple." he leaned forward with his hands clasped together, affixing each of them with a deep stare. "Join the European Union."

Whispering spread throughout the room on both sides. For his part Bindl needed every scrap of his self control keep from gawking; was the Prime Minister actually serious?

"That's-" Poole coughed into a fist, and the others had to shift in their chairs. De Brumaire alone didn't seem too stunned, but even he frowned uncomfortably. After a moment he took a breath. "That is a huge decision."

"I'm well aware, and I can tell none of you like the idea. But consider." Bērzinš leaned back to cross his arms, ignoring Klose and Renard giving him concerned looks. "Contrary to propaganda from independence minded groups, the EU doesn't oppress its member states. While yes, there are overreaching laws you'll have to implement, and obviously all foreign relations will have to go through Paris, your nations will retain a high degree of autonomy, while gaining a network of security and prosperity."

"Oh god he is." Bindl mumbled with wide eyes.

"And if our laws and yours aren't compatible?" De Brumaire inquired, though Asher and Koubuin nodded in agreement, both frowning.

"The Courts can settle all of our differences, but unless you have something like human sacrifice rituals there won't be any real problems." Bērzinš smiled encouragingly.

However, Renard coughed. "Admittedly your respective nations won't have a say in Parliament immediately. Though given the circumstances, I can assume you'll be fast tracked to full membership in, maybe five years?"

That caused some frowns amongst them, though Bindl found himself nodding. That was extraordinarily quick for new member states, a bit too fast in his opinion, but he understood the need to entice them. If nothing else, he would rather have grumbling upstart allies than resentful enemies.

"Your offer is… generous, but I'm not convinced. You're basically asking the American people to surrender their sovereignty." Asher pointed out with a deep frown.

"The same for the Japanese. I cannot willingly deliver my nation into your hands without assurances." Koubin agreed forcefully.

De Brumaire meanwhile wrinkled his brow. "I agree with my counterparts, but there's a more practical concern at work here. Namely, that by joining the EU, will be obligated to enter into your war against Britannia."

"That is a condition yes." Bērzinš agreed, calm while they frowned.

"With that said, there's no real requirement to send your existing armed forces to the frontlines." Klose hurriedly assured. "A technology exchange alone would be enough for the time being."

"And what of the other superpowers? Namely the Chinese Federation?" Asher continued, protestingly from Bindl's point of view.

Bērzinš scoffed. "The Chinese can't even keep their own people fed. It's a wonder they haven't collapsed yet."

"In any case, while this certainly sounds like a bad deal from your perspective, you should take this in context." Renard sighed. "The Chinese have an abundance of internal problems, starting with regular famines and getting progressively worse. Few other nations can accept you without severe internal strife, much less ensure your long term safety. And Britannia, well, remind me to show you some of their Emperor's speeches. That should erase any doubt."

"Nothing you have told us guarantees you will respect our affairs." Koubuin flatly observed.

"You have my word your sovereign rights won't be violated, and the promise of the European Union." Bērzinš smiled with his grand gesture.

Asher once again cleared his throat. "We'll need some time to consult with our governments. This is too much for us to unilaterally decide here."

"Of course. Such a decision can't be made overnight, but nonetheless I urge you to consider it thoroughly." Klose offered in a conciliatory tone.

"If it helps." Renard unexpectedly stood up, adjusting his jacket as he did so. "Captain Bindl, would you come forward?"

Bindl froze, his expression scrunching up. He felt his nerves turn to ice, especially as Renard picked him out of the crowd, and the people around him gazed his way. Coughing from sheer nervousness, he stood up to walk towards them, trying his best to keep his trembling under control.

"Yes Ambassador?" he said once he reached the table, internally amazed that he wasn't stuttering.

"Captain, you were the one who first made face to face contact with a member of the New United Nations, correct? How do you feel about the terms we offered?" Renard asked cooly.

"I…"

Bindl didn't know what to say. Tell them the deal was unfairly generous? That would insult each representative, possibly enough for them to break off negotiations, not to mention it'd risk inflaming public sentiment from other member states. Tell them it was bad? Same result, with the added bonus of single handedly ending his career. That would qualify as treason in more than a few courts, if blacklisting him and his entire family wasn't enough punishment. Say it was great? Would they believe that? He wouldn't in their place, and it'd make him sound like a weaselly sycophant to curry favor with politicians.

"Captain?" Renard prompted expectantly. He and the rest, from the Prime Minister himself to the ruler of an independent country, stared at him for an answer.

He took a deep breath. "I… believe… that joining the Union is… worth the drawbacks."

"I see. Thank you Captain, you may be seated." Renard gestured. With a concealed sigh Bindl spun around to walk back the way he came, but before he made it partway an insistent cleared throat halted him. A shuddering breath preceded him turning back around, only to find himself in a truly unenviable position, being stared at by one of the representatives.

"Captain Bindl, can you tell me, without lying or exaggeration, that if you were in my place, would you agree to this deal?"

After a long moment of staring into Shogun Koubuin's unflinching gaze, he gulped. "I would weigh it carefully."

"Thank you Captain, that is all." she turned around, finally allowing Bindl to return to his seat.

Mere seconds after he plopped back down Bērzinš rolled his shoulders. "I believe we should take a break for a while."

As the VIPs stood up Bindl took a breath, shaking his head as he slumped, tension bleeding out of his muscles. That was too much for him to handle, but he consoled himself by knowing he'd never have to do that again. Of course his chances of a future promotion were likely completely gone, but still, he did reasonably alright.

"Hopefully." he mumbled under his breath, not even bothering to listen to that fool mumble an insult at him.

Unnoticed by him, on the way out the door Koubuin landed her gaze on Major Jinguuji, who hadn't moved from her chair since arriving, save only for listening to her counterparts translate the conference. She stiffened under the Shogun's gaze, not missing the very deliberate way she jabbed a single finger at her side, pointed back towards the Europeans. Jinguuji nodded in understanding, albeit with a displeased frown.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: This chapter is the result of some reshuffling plan wise, so I apologize in advance if there's some flow errors.**

* * *

One month later…

It was a beautiful early morning in Algiers. Sunny with a few small clouds for shade, it was warm without being stifling, and the humidity rested at fifty percent for the first time in a while. A welcome shift from the unseasonal heat wave a short time ago. For a city near the frontlines, its inhabitants dealing with the unenviable combination of regular army patrols in the streets, stringent rationing of food and fuel, and a curfew at dusk, the pleasant weather was a small comfort in these grim days. At the very least they had it better than Ghardīa, bracing for an imminent attack, and Mostaganem, besieged by the enemy after a bloody advance on the coast.

Of course, such optimistic thoughts failed to lift Bindl's spirits. Trodding after his new boss into a den of chaos did that to a man.

Entering through a set of thick doors, he tried not to feel intimidated; from the outside, the nerve center for the North African Command wasn't very impressive, being a five story Parisian building deep in Algiers' French quarter. The drive here from the airport mostly went through this affluent district, well ordered even with large segments of the populace having evacuated east or to Europe, avoiding the refugee slums entirely. If not for the gated barriers to this block, he could fool himself into thinking he was in a Paris suburb instead. The illusion didn't last past the first checkpoint, nor was it intact when he saw many rifle armed guards on the streets. And it was definitely gone when he entered the building itself.

Once inside he paused, examining the large crowded atrium before him. The majority of its occupants were soldiers moving alone or in small groups, filling the air with chatter in several languages, with french in its usual dominant role. The bulk of them were EU military, though he spied a few Algerian Army officers filing into a room some distance away. He made out plenty of Lieutenants and Captains markers on those in sight, few had dress uniforms like his current garb however. Little of the talk was legible, but what he did pick out was interesting and predictable, codified by a pair of naval officers strolling past him.

"...to half our total fleet strength. A bunch need repairs pretty badly though, they don't have many port facilities left."

"They have a dozen carriers in their combined fleet, a couple are those supersized monsters that..." their voices were swallowed up in the buzz.

There was a mounted television in a small luncheon area nearby, currently showing what he assumed was a talk show program. Just five seconds of examination (without hearing a word over the din) and he determined what the three or four hosts were discussing. It wasn't hard to guess, considering that airwaves from Lisbon to Provideniya had been dominated by one topic for quite some time now. All due to a public announcement from Parliament's front steps just under a month ago, especially once live footage was released showing eight giants and their ship based in Mallorca, letting approximately eight hundred million Europeans and many others outside its borders discover what stumbled across him weeks previously.

He gazed away rather than try to figure out if the program had any new information, or if was just someone regurgitating their opinions on the NUN countries, one of which was the subject of endless verbal abuse. Tracking a couple plain clothed men squabbling with a Major caught his eye for a moment, long enough for his companion to twist around with a wry smile.

"Feeling under the weather Captain?" Renard asked cheerfully.

Bindl coughed into a fist. "Apologies. Please continue."

Renard twirled around with a hand waving him on, strolling inside and flashing an ID badge to a couple guards coming up, making them back off hesitantly before one cleared his throat. Trailing at his flank, Bindl joined him in following the guard navigating the NAC regional headquarters, quite a labyrinthian place now that he thought of it. The guard however marched purposefully up a wide set of stairs, closing in on an expansive office nearby.

Once there, he turned around with a stony expression. "General O'Reedy is expecting you Ambassador."

"By all means. Don't wander off Captain." Renard delivered before striding through the momentarily opened door, vanishing from sight.

Taking a breath, Bindl put his back to the adjacent wall to keep out of the way. Up here there wasn't as much foot traffic, but still he didn't want to be obtrusive; while this wasn't the first command center he visited by far, it was like every other time in that he felt uncomfortable. Operations had to be planned well if they were to succeed, he only needed to look at the Navy's ineffectual defense of the Barbary islands to see that, but the feeling of wasting time always haunted him here. No matter what, he always felt like not enough was done in these sessions.

"About that..." he mumbled to himself, closing his eyes. It was within his capacity to ask Renard to pick another assistant, letting him return to his unit. He gave every scrap of information he had on the NUN countries weeks ago, and his 'in' as it kept being called ended up doing precious little once the main conference was over. What kept him from getting a transfer was a dwindling sense of responsibility, a hope that he could somehow do a little more good in this position.

Rolling his shoulders, Bindl took a step forward to do something about the stiffness. It was here where he let his guard down, in a secure facility surrounded by a vast amount of protection, and it was at this moment that he was attacked.

Without warning a powerful limb wrapped around his neck, putting him in a headlock before he even realized it happened. Bindl's eyes bulged when his windpipe was put under pressure, grunting and thrashing at the powerful grip restricting his neck movement, elbowing what felt like a wall to no avail. In the process he barely registered a breathy chuckle close to his ear. Just as his vision started going blurry the hold released, making him stumble and gasp as he whipped around. Thanks to his disorientation, he needed several seconds to discover the identity of his assailant.

"K-Karl?" he exclaimed.

Taller than him by a head and built like a professional rugby player, the man in his forties grinned as he tried messing with Bindl's hair. He slapped the hand away by reflex, but he was still too stunned to resist him coming closer, pulling him into a near painful bear hug.

"Good to see you Hiars, see the foot is looking better. What're you up to here?" Karl asked cheerfully once he backed off, affixing him with a wide friendly grin, plain as day even with a short beard colored as blond as his hair.

"I, ah." Bindl blanched, for a moment unable to answer.

The door clicked open, catching both men's attentions; of all people it was Renard, who swiveled his gaze between them and raised his brow. "The General wants to see you now."

With a sigh Bindl stepped forward, only to do a double take at Karl doing the same, copying even his puzzled glance. Shrugging helplessly as he smoothed his jacket, he overtook him into the office, peripherally noting the high quality furniture and various odds and ends on the shelves. But he wasn't able to focus on the knick knacks. Not with an unexpected guest at his back, never mind the twin problems of Renard standing out of the way and a General in front of him. Without a word he halted before the desk and delivered a salute, as did Karl to his side.

"Gentlemen, welcome." greeted General Brossard O'Reedy in a cheery tone, setting a pipe onto an ornate cup in arms reach. Rising ponderously to his feet, he delivered a weak salute and a nod to the men, flashing an approving look at their arms dropping in unison. He was a portly man, fair complexioned and with a short red buzz cut on his uncovered head, in addition to a thick mustache under his nose. He was a little shorter than them, but he projected a far greater presence in the spacious office, partly owing to a patch showing a cluster of four stars on his beige fatigues.

"General." Bindl replied stiffly; he never spoke to this man face to face before, though he had seen him in a few meetings prior to today. He gave him a once over and then swiveled to smile jovially.

"Ah, Colonel Bindl. Just the man I wanted to see." General O'Reedy said in musically accented french, Irish he guessed. "And this must be your assistant Mäel, Captain..."

"Bindl. Captain Matthias Bindl." Renard said dryly, arms crossed beside the desk.

General O'Reedy blinked, flicking between him and Karl in confusion. Risking a peek, he found his companion barely able to hold his smirk together.

"That's an odd coincidence. You two have the same last name." he frowned thoughtfully.

"Not at all General sir." Karl said easily. "This man is my younger brother."

Bindl wrinkled his brow, reluctantly nodding to General O'Reedy raising a brow, or the perplexed look from Renard. Karl however glanced to him and smirked bemusedly, as if it was all a joke. He was clearly enjoying himself at their expense, his included.

"Huh, what're the odds of that?" General O'Reedy grunted.

Coughing into a fist, Bindl waited for a wave to let him speak. "I'm not part of his unit sir. In fact, I didn't even know he was on the continent."

"That's right sir. He's mechanized infantry, you know I'm in the Fourth Recon." Karl explained with a smile.

"I see. Well then." General O'Reedy recovered with a roll of his wide shoulders. "Here I was just hoping to chat to a man of your reputation Colonel, but it seems God has a sense of humor. Regardless."

He plucked a seemingly random sheaf of papers from his desk, located between two picture frames placed close to his chair, and held it out a small distance. Karl stepped forward to snag the packet, without bothering to even look at it he noted.

"It's a shame you're leaving this sector, but Paris is busy with all kinds of nonsense lately. They didn't even tell me where you're going, and your entire company was under my command for three months now. Your men helped so much." he complained morosely.

"That's probably for the best sir. Gonna miss harassing the Argantro Knights, they're fun to pick on. Though speaking personally I'd love it if the Captain here was tagging along with me." Karl sent a grin to his side, causing Bindl to grimace. "But look at the bright side: you have a man here who only washed out of the Thirteenth Dragoons because of allergies. You'll be fine, and the enemy won't know what hit 'em."

Bindl could tell who that last part was directed towards, but he still inhaled deeply. "Thank you Colonel."

"No problem. Thanks General, and good luck." Karl saluted again and turned around, exiting the room without a backwards glance. He received no acknowledgement whatsoever, something that Bindl considered almost unthinkable for someone at his rank. Yet General O'Reedy didn't look nearly as offended as he expected him to be; he even chuckled dryly.

"Of course, special forces and their attitudes. If I didn't know about the unit I'd throw that man into a stockade." he shook his head before refocusing on Renard with a wide smile. "Anyway Mäel, how've you been?"

"Alright Bros, just busy is all. See you put on weight." he observed with a shrug.

"Its stress, managing the front has been a constant pain in my ass. Those twats have really stepped up their game in the past couple weeks." General O'Reedy plopped back into his seat, abruptly remembering Bindl's presence. "Don't mind this banter my boy, the ambassador and I go back a ways. We met in the Embassy in Luoyang about ten years ago, back when China and the EU cooperated to put the Britannians in their place. Splendid work we did then."

"In my line of work it pays to have friends in high places." Renard again rolled his shoulders, though his half grin appeared forced all of a sudden.

"Hah, there you go being modest again. If the Captain here was a woman he'd be in your pants already." he laughed, leaning back in his seat. "So Bindl the younger, did you hear the news?"

"I'm sure everyone has by now." Renard tried to step in, only to be silenced by a newspaper being tossed beside him. He scanned the headline and narrowed his eyes. "Ah, you mean that."

"Yep, a bit of good fortune to interrupt all that drivel the media keeps harping on." he lazily swiveled to Bindl next. "Doubt you heard anything while you're out running errands, but the Britannians got a nasty black eye. Get this." he snatched up the untouched paper to hand over, making him reluctantly accept to scan.

Anti-terrorism operation in Area Eleven a catastrophic failure, Viceroy to hold memorial services later this week, Bindl mouthed the headline, wrinkling his brow the more he read. It was a very surprising tale as he found out, especially the part about who led the operation, a name that made his blood run cold: Princess Cornelia Li Britannia. Few soldiers hadn't heard of the so called War Princess, a cruel warlord as skilled in battle as she was brutal. If rumors were true Cornelia alone cut a bloody swath through half of the Middle East during their conquest, single handedly annihilating entire formations in her rampages. And yet a group of resistance fighters, whom the paper claimed were called the Black Knights, managed to lay low her entire force. A part of him felt awed at their accomplishment. The name tickled at his memory at the same time; he knew he heard it before, but he couldn't place where.

"The knightly twats lost almost an entire brigade in a landslide trying to put down some rebel gangs. If a bunch of unwashed peasants can humiliate Cornelia herself, than maybe we've been overestimating the Brits this whole time." General O'Reedy laughed, but in the next moment he deflated at seeing his lackluster reaction. "What a bore. Alright Captain, come clean with me: who'd you tick off to get a job as Mäel's gopher boy?"

Bindl cleared his throat. "Sir. I initiated first contact with an unknown fighting force, who later turned out to be from another world."

"Amusing, now..." General O'Reedy tilted his head. "Hang on, the luckless sod who contacted that pretend Britannian ship and their Eleven lackeys? That was you?"

"Yes sir." Bindl restrained a wince. Reminding himself to keep his distaste hidden, he shifted his footing while replacing the paper to the desk.

"Well, color me impressed then." he brought his hands together to huff. "In your place I would've called in an airstrike on an enemy ship and left it at that, but you had the stones to risk torture to find out more. Wish my subordinates had half as much curiosity as you."

"Thank you sir." Bindl nodded, trying to keep his features neutral. A task that he admitted was much easier said than done.

"Speaking of curiosity." Renard stepped in front of the desk with his hands clasped together, pursing his lips. "There's something I wanted to ask you, it's why I left Paris so quickly."

"Go ahead chap." General O'Reedy waved invitingly.

"You see, I heard a rumor that a big project in the south, around the El Oued region and in parts of Libyan Protectorate, was behind schedule. As an ambassador it's technically not my field, so I shouldn't..." he trailed off at seeing rolling eyes from him.

"Not you too Mäel. I've gotten a ton of calls about that waste of time, you wouldn't believe how many councilors and officials want to know about the construction project's state. I dunno why all of them want to flex their authority all of a sudden." he bemoaned.

"Did something happen to those engineering battalions then? Six of them were diverted to this country instead of going East to shore up Russian defenses, it's no small matter." Renard frowned, earning a raised brow from Bindl; he heard nothing about a combat engineer deployment.

"Yeah something happened, I put them to work fortifying Mostaganem and the Ghardaīa lines." he jabbed a hand westward, wrinkling his brow at the stunned look they shot him. "Refugee camps don't matter if our existing defenses can't hold the enemy. Feel good projects are lower priority than fighting the Britannian invasion, and since High Command won't send any additional forces to my sector, I had to make use of what was available."

"So you're the one who delayed them." he said with a frown.

"A few unbuilt tents aren't the end of the world. Besides, I got the Algerians to hire a bunch of civil contractors to pick up the slack, so the only reason they're behind is laziness." General O'Reedy dismissed.

Bindl swiveled to Renard again, taking note of him squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. "Brossard, those engineers are supposed to be making homes to support the New United Nations alliance. This was a ratified executive order from President Laval himself."

"New what now? Wait, don't tell me the old coot actually agreed to take in those portal folk." he sat up in his chair, jaw dropping.

"He did. It'll be announced in a couple weeks, but Parliament agreed to resettle the NUN's entire population in exchange for EU membership. Our citizen count jumped two million overnight." Renard explained, earning a surprised look from both soldiers. "Land in Algeria, Libya, and Niger has already been set aside for their relocation, along with limited tracts within the European heartlands. One such territory is in the El Oued region, which the Engineering Corp was supposed to begin developing."

"Bloody hell, they actually did it." General O'Reedy muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. Still standing before the desk, Bindl felt surprise and no small amount of confusion; from their size and importance he assumed the NUN countries would've been relocated to Scandinavia or the Karelia region, along with possibly the British Isles. He hadn't considered Africa more than once or twice given its distance. The only advantage he saw was more open territory to expand on, so why did Paris choose there?

"That's why I'm here. This project holds equal importance to the war." Renard finished grimly.

"Then why didn't they tell me? I could've mobilized the Algerians weeks ago if I knew what the stakes were. Even if they are a bunch of homeless refugees, I should've been informed." he indignantly replied.

"Orders from up top, probably from the LEDES party faction. The fools." Renard sighed, rolling his eyes. "I want to inspect the zone myself then. It's supposed to be ready for the first wave of migrants in a few days."

"Alright fine, I'll order a plane for you. But next time you gotta give me more of a heads up Mäel." General O'Reedy admonished, reaching for his phone.

* * *

Sitting in the corner of Algiers International Airport was a lone jet painted a nondescript dark grey, similar to but not exactly like the Transall C-170 cargo planes parked nearby. Its external markers were that of a supply battalion based in the French heartlands, which raised some odd questions as to why it was all the way out here without delivering any cargo. Those questions were handled by a specially made seal from its captain, one that came with verified paperwork from Paris Central Command, and unless a foolish officer wanted to be visited by a pair of DRM agents with soulless eyes, they approved its arrival and left the matter be.

A lone TRM pulled up the expansive paved field shimming a little from heat hazes, coming to a halt parallel to the open hatch to kill its engine, leaving its own backend level with the plane's. Behind the wheel the two drivers sat back and relaxed, not bothering to leave their cabin to aid their passengers with offloading. They weren't supposed to, and knew better than to probe where they didn't belong. For the group of approximately twenty men, all in unmarked fatigues and moving their equipment by themselves, they likewise didn't ask for their help.

Inside the plane, a lone figure left a seat by the exit to stride out into open air.

Hefting a fully laden duffel on his back, Colonel Karl Bindl slowed and stopped at seeing the passenger enter the light, putting a halt to the COS Fourth Recon Regiment, First Platoon, who all stopped their idle chatter and walking immediately. A few still grabbing cases from the truck glanced over, and a few others walked sideways to see better. But none went closer than where they were.

Karl grunted at the sight, trying not to stare at the officer in a dress uniform walking up to him, with an emphasis on the dress; fair skin, a uniform skirt, and long blonde hair tied into twin tails that reached as far as her waist described the woman. He positively towered over her, taking note of both her age (if she was older than twenty five he'd swear off drinking) and her insignia, marking her as a lower rank. Whatever his thoughts were, his neutral expression gave nothing away. She halted a meter away and reluctantly craned her neck up to meet his gaze, delivering a flawless salute.

"Colonel Bindl of the Fourth Recon?" she questioned, her tone even and lacking inflection, and her accent outing her as native French.

"That's me Major..." Karl trailed off, his blue eyes not leaving her face. Despite the colossal size difference, there was zero sign of intimidation in her body language. Not even when he dropped his luggage to slam on the ground did she react.

"Malcal, Major Leila Mal. Chief Operations Director for TacOps Unit number Six Six Seven, designation W-Zero." she answered crisply.

"Never heard of it." he replied in the same tone.

"Its brand new, this is our first field operation." Without a word she handed over a small tablet, and finally he took his gaze off her, hiding his mild disappointment; he rather enjoyed his intense stare's unnerving effect, it was rare that it failed to frighten lesser peoples. "I've been ordered by Central Command to deliver your new orders personally."

Flicking on the screen and scanning his thumbprint, Karl was about to smile friendlily, doing his usual routine of cracking a joke and defrosting her icy exterior. Not to seduce her however; in spite of his previous experiences he had standards for women, and a hunch said that she was too well connected for his romantic side to win her over. It'd be better if he stayed strictly professional off the field, reserving tricks like hacking her data if she really earned his ire. He made a mental note to keep his band of merry hell raisers away as well to save on the trouble.

A part of his mind continued that train of thought, even while his eyes scanned over the first couple paragraphs again. And then again for good measure, slowly computing that what he read wasn't a mistake, caused by either a misfiled report or the sun messing with his vision. Karl's expression finally broke, raising a brow as he met her own solid gaze once again.

"Major, is this for real?" he asked slowly, causing his men to stir uneasily.

Major Malcal nodded. "Your platoon will be joining my unit for this mission, we'll be departing as soon as you're aboard the plane. In six days-"

"Major!"

Karl swiveled his eyes up, catching a momentary grimace from Malcal as she brought her arms to her sides, stepping to the side with a hint of distaste. He observed that, then he studied the forty year old man stomping down the ramp towards them. Precisely four seconds of examining his long tailed grey uniform and cap, along with a short beard on his shin and a barely restrained scowl, and he had a solid profile of what to expect. All around him the men backed away a step, more to prevent mishaps than fear.

Stopping in a huff, the officer with a handful of uninspiring tags stopped to stare angrily, sparing a sour glare towards Malcal. "You're the Special Operations team?"

"First Platoon, Fourth Recon Regiment Lieutenant Colonel Anou." Karl replied evenly. While his men exchanged looks and mumbled amongst themselves, he remained cool and collected.

Anou grunted. "You'll have to forgive my subordinate's misbehavior, a desk bound career brings delusions of grandeur."

"And you Lieutenant Colonel?" he turned around, subtly emphasizing his full rank. His plan was decided on after the second sentence, but based on the looks and mutters from his platoon, they expected a show. And he intended to deliver.

"My career wasn't as illustrious as my comrades, but I served as a military advisor to both the Middle Eastern Federation and Russia. This posting may be less glorious than serving to defend the homeland, but I will carry it out with the skill and dignity of a proper EU officer. It is my opinion that your unit is unnecessary." Anou loftily explained, adopting a proud smile. He also caused Malcal to narrow her gaze, but he didn't seem like he caught that.

Karl nodded, smiling himself. "I'm sure my unit is superfluous, but its presence ensures results. To start with."

Bringing up the tablet again, he switched programs and drafted a couple orders, ignoring Anou's sudden frown. Once he signed he shoved the tiny computer into his grip, watching him gingerly read the new commands. His face went red almost immediately.

"Reassignment?" Anou snapped up with a shocked glower, right before it twisted into a scowl. "You can't do that-"

"Colonel Bindl, _Lieutenant_ Colonel Anou." Karl smiled, hearing chuckles from his flanks, and unless he was mistaken, a petty grin from Malcal. "You can report to Paris to explain yourself, we have work to do."

"Now you listen here you jungle stomper!" Anou butted in to stab him with a pointed finger. When the digit bounced off his hard abs harmlessly, a look of surprise flashed across his features. Exactly what he wanted.

Still smiling, Karl grabbed his necktie and lifted him off the ground with only a quiet grunt, holding a now pale Anou with one hand. His serene expression didn't change when he brought him closer, sensing his legs dangling off the pavement.

_"I'm listening."_

Karl let go to see him stumble, bending down to pick up his luggage again. Without a word chatter resumed from his men filing onboard the Transall, though he stayed put as Anou sputtered out formless protests, finishing with Malcal nodding with a smirk as she followed the men. When his shocked gaze returned to him, Karl just shrugged.

"I look forward to your official protest _Lieutenant_ Colonel Anou. Adios." he gave a polite wave and walked past his shuddering form, smiled at him ducking away from his bulk.

Karl's cheer lasted until he entered the cargo hold, spying a row of large containers inside that could hold scout trucks, which his men edged past while giving the thick cases odd looks. He had suspicions of what they were, but his thoughts were put on hold when Malcal stopped right by the ramp slowly rising up, stepping closer to confirm what he saw was real.

Upon detecting him she glanced over her shoulder and turned around, squaring herself up at his raised brow. "Yes Colonel?"

"Major." Karl frowned, hearing the jets outside rumble to life. His gaze however didn't leave the young man lethargically rousing himself from his seat, pushing a ponytail to his back to face him. His nondescript blue fatigues unmarked by anything other than a name tag. "And you are?"

The Japanese boy gave perhaps the most lackluster excuse of a salute he ever saw. "Second Lieutenant Akito Hyuga."

"Huh, and..." when Karl twisted to a handful of other similar men in the corner, keeping a buffer between themselves and First Platoon, his suspicions were raised. "Major Malcal, tell me this unit isn't what I think it is."

When the plan started moving his only concession was grabbing a handhold. Malcal did the same, not hiding a pained wince. Hygua on the other hand returned to his seat and made himself comfortable; within seconds of closing his eyes he appeared to be fast asleep, as odd as that seemed.

"Originally sir, it was. But not anymore." she declared tightly, resting the urge to bare her teeth. "Central Command ordered W-Zero to aid the Japanese Resistance, and with your help that's exactly what we're doing."

"Noble, and probably because of that other Earth fiasco my brother got himself wrapped up in. Now you do know a bunch of extra grunts won't make much of a difference? I've been called a miracle worker, but this is a tall order." Karl tried to console, grimacing with a now leery glance at the men strapping themselves in. He made it a point to keep any racist tendencies out of his behavior, but that well meaning life guideline didn't extend to all his troops.

Rather than speaking she handed over another tablet, letting a pleased smile filter onto her face. Seconds of flicking through the displays and he saw why, offering it back and sparing a fresh look at the containers, one that was mildly appreciative all of a sudden.

"Hope Command doesn't mind if these get flinched." he said lowly, feeling the plane start to take off, steadily pulling him into an incline. But if he was being honest, this mission just got a lot more interesting.


	5. Chapter 5

The next day Bindl found himself feeling like a bystander, again. The flight in a small cargo jet went uneventfully enough even with landing on a dirt stretch they called a runway, unloading some extra supplies proceeded smoothly, and the tiny convoy waiting for them encountered no problems worse than a bumpy road, as far as he could tell from the back of a TRM escorted by two VBLs anyway. If not for the weather becoming sweltering this far south, he could almost appreciate the desolate grasslands.

When the convoy stopped on top of a small hill Bindl joined the guards in exiting, once again feeling relieved to be in his field uniform. The rest of their party; Renard, General O'Reedy, and a few aides swiftly followed him out, and together they peered towards a fresh source of trouble.

"What on God's green Earth..." muttered General O'Reedy, staggering closer to gawk. He and the aides alike were fixated in abject wonder, with the convoy's personnel forgetting their duties to gape as well. Renard was more composed, and although outwardly Bindl was too, privately he felt distinctly uneasy.

Half a kilometer away was a bizarrely calm scene. At a slight incline down from them was a close copy of the unsettling black portal from Mallorca (this one a bit larger he thought), standing in the middle of a huge flattened lot, and from its dark surface streamed crowds of people. Out from the veil of nothingness poured hundreds of refugees on dingy buses, packed into ill maintained cars, or even walking through that hole in existence itself. No part of the otherworldly creation seemed to slow them down. An ill timed gust brushed against the convoy, downwind of the site.

"Ah, God." General O'Reedy waved a hand in front of himself, after a moment yanking out a handkerchief to hold over his face. The aides and several soldiers had to pinch their noses, recoiling from the strong stench of salt and unwashed bodies. Bindl too wrinkled his nose at the unseemly smell.

Renard was struggling too, but he composed himself enough to walk closer to overlook the entire affair. "Well, they're ahead of schedule."

Coughing into his arm, Bindl walked to his side to examine them in greater detail. In addition to the refugees, he saw what had to be a company's worth of EU soldiers scattered about, either guarding tanker trucks or directing traffic, with a couple men in a Fuchs speaking into a loudspeaker for directions, in case several signs being put up weren't sufficient. The stream was being funneled into a series of large warded posts in the road, what he recognized as aid stations, medical posts, and registries, where civilians emerged from the opposite side at a steady rate. From what little he could tell every component of the citizen processing was going remarkably smoothly, considering what they were doing. Perhaps because of the ten giants forming a perimeter around the entire location.

Squinting his eyes at the Tactical Surface Fighters standing guard, Bindl swiftly discovered there were three different varieties in sight, none of which he ever saw before. An expected yet unwelcome revelation, though after a moment he saw not one had their weapons trained on the civilians or the EU troops; he felt relieved at that observation.

"Swell. We should go pay a visit to the settlement then." Renard turned to suggest.

"If you say so. Lieutenant, find me whoever's in charge here." General O'Reedy barked, making one soldier scramble. After that however he plodded closer to them, causing Bindl to stiffen. "So Captain, what do you think?"

Sensing that was a trick question, he braced himself to be chewed out. "Sir, I don't see any problems at this time."

"Of course you don't." he mused to himself, working his shoulders dismissively. "I heard on the news most of these folk came from Britannia. And here we are letting them into our territory."

"Many are from the North American continent sir, but they aren't Britannians." Bindl replied, earning a petty wave.

"Same difference as far as I'm concerned. A bunch of extra mouths to feed and a poor industrial base. I mean, look at those things." he jerked a hand towards the general direction of the TSFs. "The kind of mind who builds humanoid war machines is delusional. We got it right with our Panzer-Hummels, and the Chinese use their Gun-Rus like up armored cavalry, but these contraptions? They must be worse than Knightmares."

Bindl remembered a quartet of TSFs annihilating a Britannian company with light damage, and cleared his throat. "They're surprisingly effective sir."

This time General O'Reedy shot him a glance, one filled with polite disapproval. If he hadn't seen those Shiranuis rescue his platoon from destruction he might've nodded along. But since that happened, and because he was there for the initial conference, he was obligated to tell him the truth. Something which was certain to land him in hot water, if a distraction hadn't come along.

Leaving a short lived dust cloud in its wake, a VBL drove up a bumpy path to park by the convoy, the side door throwing open to reveal a short officer stepping out to march towards them. General O'Reedy gave him one more disappointed peek then switched to the freshly arrived soldier, who promptly stood at attention with his posture ramrod straight.

"General O'Reedy sir, I'm Major Lifri of the Sixtieth Infantry Battalion. I'm the acting commander of this operation." he reported, a thin mustache twitching from a poorly disguised grimace.

He crossed his arms behind his back and stared him down. "Major, seems you have a good handle on things so far. Now why was I not informed about this unauthorized intrusion by foreign nationals?"

"Sir, I was given only minutes of warning myself. Once the telemetry crew arrived they weren't waiting for auth-" the now quaking Major was silenced by a swiped hand, eyes flicking to the displeased look from Renard.

"Things look orderly from here, but I'll be supervising this farce while I'm in the area. Understood?" General O'Reedy snapped.

"Yes sir." Major Lifri stiffly replied.

"Excellent. Now, who's in charge of those oversized Knightmares down there?" he gestured to the side.

"Sir, I'm obligated to inform you there's approximately two platoons of ground troops assisting the relocation, they're calling themselves American Military." he shrunk back ever so slightly at the narrowed gaze set upon him. "I've been coordinating my men with their commanding officer there, one Major Walken."

"Good, bring him here." General O'Reedy ordered before twisting his head. "Actually belay that, tell this Walken fellow to meet us at the settlement, I want to see its status for myself."

"Yes sir." Major Lifri darted back to his vehicle, Bindl noticing the tension in his body. But at the moment what mattered was an approving nod from Renard, who gestured for them to mount up as well.

Hurry up and wait was a lesson Bindl learned early in his career, and that held true now as much as ever. Back into the trucks, moving some boxes around so they stopped rattling, and making sure the other passengers were buckled in, just like getting off the plane. A lot of hassle for going a short distance; less than ten minutes later they passed through a gated checkpoint adjacent to a busy entrance station, passing under a large sign proclaiming the land beyond to be New Springfield, and finally they could see the foundation of a new member state up close.

The moment the doors opened into a narrow street, Bindl immediately saw things were not well. Not well at all.

"This is it?" Renard balked, swinging his head back and forth across a crowded vista. People were all around the convoy, clearing out of their way or poking heads out of the plain white structures to see what the noise was.

Bindl himself couldn't help but agree. Development brought to mind fresh homes and buildings, but what he saw was far different; rows and rows of simple prefabricated huts, arranged in grid squares with larger concrete structures dotting the area. There was only one solar panel tower looming over the squat townscape, though he spotted a couple more being erected nearby, neither looking like they would be finished anytime soon. Workers were busy putting up things off in the distance, and a little further he could faintly make out vehicles still processing ground. There were no paved roads, no parks or trees, and everything simply looked ugly.

If that wasn't bad enough, after a short scan he guessed New Springfield wasn't even that large. Seventeen or eighteen kilometers wide and maybe twenty long, packed tightly with prefabs and dirt. The best he could say was it had to be better than the tent cities he saw in the news further south, but that was a low bar to clear. He could scarcely imagine living here himself. And this was supposed to be the new home for people from another world?

"It's not much I know, but it's impressive how much they managed to build in just two weeks." General O'Reedy walked to his side, arms clasped behind his back as he too gazed around the settlement.

Seeing a full body recoil from Renard made Bindl discreetly step back.

"Impressive? This!? What am I going to say to the Prime Minister or the Shogun if I present this low budget shitheap to them!? She's already furious at our ghettos! These are new allies and we couldn't even be arsed to pave the damn roads! Those idiot euro first party pricks-" he stopped to grip his head, swinging in place and growling animalistically. A solid minute passed before he dropped his arms limply. "Please give me some good news."

"Uh… there's four other places over those hills being constructed. This is the largest one so far though." an aide reluctantly answered, pointing at a stubby range nearby.

"The power grid works, I believe. New Springfield will have electricity during the day. There's a couple phone towers up which are linked to the EuroCom grid. Oh, and all the water and sewage systems are functional." another proudly told him, promptly rechecking his tablet intently. "Make that mostly functional, there's leaks in water pipes in the second, fourth, and fifth districts. The manager assures me they'll tend to it at the first opportunity."

"See? Hardly a shitheap. Now stand up, you're embarrassing yourself." General O'Reedy grabbed Renard's arm and grunted, forcing him upright. He squared his shoulders at the hollow look he showed. "Relax old friend, it's just a stumbling block. Remember when we went out to eat in Luoyang around Christmas, I said something about that bridge the Chinese were working on, and you looked over and said Rome wasn't built in a day? It's the same thing here. Especially if Paris decides to let the bleeding hearts raise charity for these people."

"Three weeks of negotiations and assurances, down the drain." he deadpanned. Huffing, General O'Reedy speared Bindl in a tight glare.

"Captain, tell this man that it's perfectly adequate." he ordered.

Bindl winced. "Ambassador, you-"

There was a rush overhead, a swift whine that grew into a gale force wind. All the convoy personnel ducked and flinched at the massive shadow passing over them, with Bindl lowering his arms after a second to find a pair of giant machines flying above the rooftops, swiveling from a sharp twist before descending nearby. The closest TSF kept its arrow shaped head pointed at the Europeans, hefting a huge rifle clutched across its chest in the process, while the other faced away from them as they landed, shuddering slightly when their weight settled. Dust blew up from their jets, but not a large amount; the fact there was any told him there wasn't enough grass to anchor the soil.

Unsurprisingly (yet very much not to his liking) both were different models than what he'd seen before. The first one was a lime green with scuffs of grey, and unlike the Shiranui or the F-18 it's frame was more blocky, unmistakably a bit smaller than its counterpart. Except for the gun and racks of jagged blades on its forearms, it had no visible weapons, though he assumed it had more inside its frame. He wasn't sure why, but intuition told him this one was an older design. What caught his eye however was the flag painted on its shoulder and jet fins, a leaf on a plain background with dual bars, alternating between red and white.

Its partner however was an entirely different story. This one was all sharp angles, from arrow-like knee cones to smooth forearms all the way to its squinted visor head, painted a faded gunmetal black and sporting only an icon on its hip armor. It was taller than the first by a head (for them), approximately two meters or so. There was only one gun clamped to its back pylons, leaving its hands free and nonthreatening. But something about its appearance gave him chills even in this heat; he sensed this was a predatory machine, built to hunt men and not monsters.

Shaking his head to dispel the thoughts, he checked to find the TSFs parked a short distance away, standing in the middle of an open lot without much room to spare. After a moment he estimated them to be a hundred meters from their convoy. He turned to get back on the truck yet again, but a huff from General O'Reedy froze him in place.

"Might as well get a lay of this place while we're here. I need to get my PE for the day while I'm at it." he said before peering to his aide. "Lieutenant, are those rations still in the back?"

"Yes sir."

"Excellent. Hearts and minds gentlemen, we're friendly folk." he waved expectantly.

Bindl had a cardboard box shoved into his grip, a heavy thing which his supplier treated with little care. After shifting his hold he pondered how he was going to do this, until Renard leaned over him to reveal a small penknife, which he used to slice open the top.

"Are you alright Ambassador?" he asked softly, catching General O'Reedy gesturing for the three vehicles to move.

"Not particularly. But we'll just have to make the best of it." Renard answered sourly, trodding away to snag up a handful of ration packs.

Plodding down the street with a box in hand, Bindl let his gaze wander freely over the town, and he didn't like what he saw. Suspicious eyes met him from every angle, no matter where he looked. Hunched and dirty people were everywhere, who either cooly regarded the Europeans or disdainfully ignored them, though all parted around their party like they were cursed. Most were busy inspecting their new homes or exploring, letting him overhear gossip during the walk. All of it was in English, making him doubly glad he learned the language.

"This place is a dump."

"Is the water clean? What about the hospital?"

"I'm just happy the salt storms are gone."

"Can't believe we're under the French."

"Listen honey, it's better than Kansas City."

Conversation largely went on regardless of their presence, though more than a few hushed up as they came into view. About then he noticed something about the people he passed, shouldering his box to a more comfortable spot: there were women, there were elderly folk, he saw and heard children nearby. But men, especially in the twenty to fifty year old range, there were so few he briefly wondered if there were any at all.

Walking by a fourteen year old in ragged clothing, he frowned at the oddly short boy's unbidden glare. "Fucking French."

Bindl sent him a raised brow, just in time to have a gaggle of laughing children run in front of him. A hasty stop kept him from bumping into anyone, moving his cargo to the side to see; a group of six or seven adolescents were running and kicking an abused ball around. He guessed them to be somewhere between eight to twelve altogether, made up of a blend of ethnicities he rarely saw mixed like they were; Euro, African, Arabic, even a rarely seen Hispanic were playing together, yet that didn't seem to bother them. Not until one girl stopped to give him a double take, causing the entire party to halt and peer at him.

The girl was dark tinted and uncomfortably skinny, her clothes ratty and in dire need of replacement. She couldn't have been more than eight or nine. "Hiya."

"Um, hello." Bindl hesitantly replied, making her head tilt sideways.

"Are you a frog? Momma and auntie said frogs are mean people." she said innocently.

"A what?" he coughed to the side rather than try to make sense of it. "Ah, are any of you hungry?"

Immediately the children crowded closer with visible excitement, all needing a bath by the smell of them. Groaning to himself while trying to keep a buffer, he reached into his box and withdrew the first item he grabbed, peeking at the label prior to offering it to the first girl.

"Here, it's chocolate." he explained with an encouraging smile as she took it.

"Chocolate? He said chocolate!" one child screamed, lunging at the girl. Instantly all the others ganged up on her, shrieking and yelling as she screamed and pushed right back. He shook from them colliding against his legs, almost spilling his box from tripping.

"Hey, hey!" he barked, but they didn't listen. The children crowded the first girl trying to escape, acting like ravenous animals tearing into fresh meat; nothing he did short of physically dragging them away would do anything.

Which was the exact time when a pair of hands clamped on his box and yanked. Bindl grunted at the new change, reflexively jerking back to hear a growl. When he snapped over he saw the cursing boy, whose eyes blazed with hate as he tried to steal his food.

"Gimme you french fucker!" he screamed, his voice cracking. Despite his obvious thinness he had a strong grip, enough that Bindl grunted from trying to get his thrashing form away, which grew harder when he tried kicking his legs again. A snarl left him at the flash of pain, but not enough to get him to let go.

All of a sudden a ratchety double click put an end to the entire commotion. "That's enough!"

His now scared attacker let go to back up a step, shaking with his arms raised high. All the children likewise froze up to peer at the source, though one tried to snatch the girl's prize from behind her, and got a slap for her trouble. Lowering his cargo back to chest level, his wide eyes needed a moment to realize there was a weathered middle aged blonde woman who appeared from the nearest home. And she had a stubby shotgun in hand.

She stared long and hard at the group, focusing on him. "Who are you?"

"I, uh, I'm Captain Bindl. Of the EU armed forces." he answered quickly, features going white at the gun pointing at his chest.

"You're one of those Euros, aren't you? With the French." the woman narrowed her gaze.

"I'm European, german." he couldn't help but gulp. But when she lowered her weapon, he let out a breath of relief.

"Different Euro huh? So you weren't with the bastards who raided Chicago and killed my husband? In the last border war the Canucks only hit the Guard depot, but those bastards made sure to bomb my neighborhood." her voice turned accusatory, causing him to wince.

"No ma'am, not affiliated with them." he denied; he would've been more offended if she didn't have a weapon.

In the corner of his vision he saw one trooper from the convoy approaching him, hand on his holstered sidearm ready to draw. Swallowing a lump, he held an arm to his side and flapped his fingers, causing the man to reluctantly back off.

The woman lowered her shotgun. "Drop the stuff, I'll make sure it's passed out fairly."

"Ah, ma'am." Bindl frowned in protest.

"I'm a cop, or I was before this shit. The goddamn Day ruined my career." she waved off his concerns. "Go, get outta here."

Grimacing unhappily, he crouched to plant his package by his feet, noting the angry boy still glaring at him and eyeing the box. A jerk from the woman's gun however sent him scampering away, and as he walked backwards she gave directions for the kids and others, who came out to see what was going on. The last thing he saw was her pulling out ration packs to hand to the children, sending them running once they had their meal. When the boy returned to try to raid its contents she slapped him across the cheek.

Exchanging a pained glance with the soldier, Bindl jogged to catch up with the trucks, who came to a halt once he started moving. He caught up with only a couple of men noticing, seeing as the rest were too busy watching the TSF hatches opening for their pilots to disembark. Just like the Shiranui a line brought their pilots to the ground safely, both stepping off to trot up to their group.

General O'Reedy stepped in front of their party with his hands clasped behind his back, leveling a flat look at the first pilot. Coming from the black TSF, he was a tall and solidly built man in his early forties, blond and square jawed despite some recognizable dark lines under his eyes. He stopped a body's length away and saluted, earning more than a few odd looks at his blue and green skin tight flight suit, a male twin of the revealing outfit he saw Marimo wear.

"General sir." he greeted crisply and without reservation. A part of Bindl felt impressed at the discipline in his form.

"You must be the commander I heard mention of." General O'Reedy greeted, watching him lower his arm to his side. "Français?"

He hit something on his chin brace, making him nod once. "Negative, but my translator is functioning. Major Alfred Walken, United States Army."

"Ah." a frown crossed him, apparently not reacting well to the synthesized french coming from a speaker.

Renard stepped forward to clap his hands, putting on an inviting smile with his english greeting. "Pleased to meet you Major, and a belated welcome to Algeria."

"Thank you sir. General, by order of the NUN security council, I am hereby placing myself and the Sixty Sixth Tactical Armored Battalion Hunter under your authority." Major Walken said flatly.

"Meaning this thing is under my command?" General O'Reedy raised a brow, eyes flickering between him and the TSF.

"My F-22 Raptor, yes sir. There's three others and four F-15 Strike Eagles on standby. I have work crews setting up a mobile station for refueling and rearming. At present only A company is on this side, the rest will be deployed here at the earliest opportunity." he explained.

Bindl stepped closer, letting his gaze roam over the black TSF, this 'Raptor.' A part of him thought the name was fitting in a way, suiting it's clearly predatory aesthetic. Planting a fist on his hip, he tuned out the ongoing discussion for a moment, not seeing the second machine's pilot until he felt eyes boring into him. Swiveling carefully, he found the other one standing a body's length from him.

He abruptly blinked, eyeing the teenaged girl who had olive skin and long braided hair, and was almost two heads shorter than him. She was smiling, her facial features lean yet still youthful while she held her hands in front of her waist.

"Hello?" he said slowly, finally wising up to her rail thin figure. A task made very easy thanks to the flight suit she wore, something that was distracting on a mature woman but more disturbing on this girl, who appeared very similar to the civilians he passed here.

"Hiya." she greeted cheerfully. A second later and she bolted up in a mockery of a soldier coming to attention, even giving him a 'salute' which touched her temple instead of her brow. "Right, Second Lieutenant Maria Granger, of the Three'oh'Third Tactical Armored Regiment! Canadian Land Forces Component." she added after a moment, dropping her arm without a cue from him. "You're part of the French forces? Uh, Bonjour?"

"I'm fluent in english. How old are you child?" Bindl asked carefully in the same language as her, only to be met by a pout.

"Second Lieutenant! I'm a commissioner officer, just like my mom." she insisted. Bindl nodded blankly.

"And your age? ...Lieutenant?" he reluctantly added.

Granger planted a fist on her tiny hip and smiled proudly. "I'm seventeen! Or, I will be in a month. It's close enough."

His features wrinkled; he would've pegged her at fourteen years old, and that was being charitable. Even without that however, she was much shorter for her age than she should've been.

"And, you..." he gestured at the green TSF instead of articulating the outrageous thought. French, German, English, none of them made the idea any more acceptable.

"E-yup, been flying for bout three months now. My Tornado ay-dee-vee hasn't let me down yet, got me through the Eighth Border War in one piece." Granger excitedly proclaimed. But after a moment her expression slumped. "But I'm not a real TSF pilot yet. I haven't survived the Eight Minutes of Death."

"The what?" he raised a brow, growing tired of asking questions.

"The Eight Minutes. You know? You last for eight minutes against the BETA, and then you're the real deal." she frowned, giving him a look as if he were the one talking nonsense.

"How does lasting eight minutes…" Then one detail clicked, and his features went pale. "You saw combat?"

"Oh yeah, lotta kids did. Beats starving in the orphanage, and I was lucky because my unit got time on a trainer before combat. Buncha others didn't. I heard the Americans get to use trainers for all their new pilots, spoiled yanks." she shook her head with a whiny groan. "Its not fair. They caused the Day and they still have all these toys."

"But wait, you said your... mother..." he trailed off with his jaw opening, seeing her frown.

Bindl glanced away, expression scrunched up while he swayed from having his head swim. He couldn't believe what he was hearing, he had trouble even processing it. And yet, as he stopped to catch his breath, it made sense with his knowledge of them. From what he saw on this short jaunt, it was less unbelievable and more inevitable.

"Are you okay?" Granger asked in concern.

When he rechecked the others he found that his conversation hadn't gone unnoticed. Major Walken politely stepped away from General O'Reedy to walk towards them, his stern features showing concern when he overlooked the two. He stopped a body's length away to clear his throat.

"Is my counterpart bothering you Captain?" he asked through his translator, although he understood him well enough without it.

"Yes actually, she is bothering me." Bindl turned towards him with a glare. Circumstances didn't matter, he set a look of cold anger upon the foreign Major.

"Wait, Captain? Uh oh, ah." Granger's alarmed look was silenced by him swiping a hand in her direction.

On his end Walken seemed to piece things together quickly. "Yes, I should've known."

"Explain yourself then, Major." he half spat, brow wrinkled even with the others stomping over.

"Circumstances beyond my control." he wrinkled his brow and let out a breath. "You don't approve, and neither do I. If I had my way, none of them would be closer than a hundred meters of any military equipment."

"And yet you threw them into battle? What is wrong with you people?" Bindl snapped. He saw Renard's alarmed face approach to defuse the situation, and General O'Reedy going red from anger, but at the moment neither mattered.

"Ever since the Day, it's the same thing for all of us. We're desperate Captain." Walken answered quietly, shaking his head before affixing him with a fresh look that stopped him in his tracks. "That's why we're here, even with... all this."

"Excuse me Major." General O'Reedy spoke up in a tone promising trouble.

"It's why I placed my men under your people's command, why I'm willing to put up with all the indignity or petty insults anybody slings at me. I fully expect to be thrown into a hopeless battle that will get me killed here, for people who don't care a bit." Walken said tightly, causing O'Reedy to balk. "Treat me like the dirt beneath your boots if you must. As long as you can promise me you'll give Maria and all the other kids out there a chance that-" he paused, gulping down a lump. "A chance my son will never have."

Renard stepped between them with his hands raised, clearing his throat. "How about we calm down and not argue. We're all allies here."

"In that case, I want this child to be taken away from the TSF." Bindl declared.

"Hey!" Granger protested.

"Someone else should be flying it, someone like... me." he clamped shut the second the words left his mouth, his face going white instantly. In a flash his outraged anger was gone.

General O'Reedy rolled his eyes. "Captain, don't let your good standing go to your-"

"Very well, I'll be your wingman." Walken said immediately, earning several double takes.

"Actually, that's not a bad idea. How else are we supposed to integrate our respective forces together, if equipment can't be cross trained? This'll be a perfect chance to exercise teamwork." Renard's expression lit up, sending a narrow eyed look to his side. General O'Reedy grimaced and groaned in equal measure.

"Alright then, Captain. Let's see how well this will work." he decided with a roll of his shoulders.

Bindl gulped, standing as stiff as a board. As he saw the group start to disperse, he regretted opening his mouth. But it was too late to back out now.

It went by in a blur; inside of a half hour he was shoved inside an empty home with a duffel and a laminated guide, and told to put on a rubbery outfit that was just like Walken's, what the paper called a Fortified Suit. He asked himself how they managed to scrounge up a fresh one suit so quickly, before a whiff inside had him correct that part. Again he groaned at the directions, dispensing of all his clothing, even down to his socks. His only concession was keeping his necklace, holding onto the small crucifix to mutter a short prayer. Now he needed it more than ever.

Stepping out into the light again, Bindl kept his blushing grimacing rictus of a face as steady as he could, feeling the suit tug everywhere on him, no matter what he did. The black and purple suit left nothing to the imagination. Renard cleared his throat rather than comment, General O'Reedy cough into a fist while forcing down a bemused grin, and Walken simply nodded in acknowledgement, gesturing to make him adjust one part of the face covering.

As for the target of his ire, Granger nodded approvingly while still pouting. "Why're you taking mine? Ask the Americans to borrow that Raptor or one of the Eagles."

Rather than get dragged down to squabbling with a child while wearing this thing, Bindl groaned and trod past her towards the so called Tornado, letting Walken take the lead while Granger followed in his wake.

Then came the embarrassing part. Bindl looked away with a pained wince after grabbing the zip line, feeling Granger wrap her arms around his chest with a little too much strength, smiling when he met her gaze for a second. Ascending towards the Tornado couldn't go by fast enough.

Once he was up top however, then he really wondered if he was in over his head. Hunched over the open cockpit, he leered at the kind of equipment little of his training prepared him for, although there were fewer buttons and icons than he thought there would be. Upon seeing his cringe, Granger shrugged.

"Cmon, it's easy." she invited.

"Scheiße." he mumbled, groaning as he crawled inside and plopped himself in the seat, wincing at trying to adjust the dimensions from a scrawny teen to him. Far too soon for his liking he was in place, both hands wrapping around the controls after putting on restraints from his legs to his collarbone.

"Okay, start up is here." Granger hit a button, and several screens around him sprung to life, flickering a moment before clearing up to an outside view. "Engines are here, arm and jump unit controls are there. Legs down by your feet."

"Ah, how..." Bindl bared his teeth with his cringe, but a sudden static jolt on his face cover made him wince.

"Thought influenced. Neato stuff, but this updated first gen isn't as good as that top of the line third gen over there." she spared a sour look in the Raptor's direction.

"Wait, this is an older model?" Bindl asked suddenly, a part of him feeling happy at his intuition being right.

"Updated." Granger corrected sternly, as threatening as a hissing kitten. "I don't wanna know what the first models were like. Anyway, it's on my settings, but it should work after a few minutes. But don't change it too much, I want it back." she warned with a stabbed finger. "Oh, and the autopilot is..." she reached over and hit a small button. Immediately the Tornado shuddered, rumbling a moment when its engines started up. She sat back and grinned. "There. Now don't crash my baby."

"Ah, right." Bindl was a hairbreadth from calling it off, but Granger backing away while a shadow loomed outside the cockpit killed that chance. Once she climbed onto the huge metal hand, he was trapped.

Then the hatch slid shut with a hiss, making the front displays flicked on to show the outside, letting him see a field of plain homes from up top. Data streamed along the sides before halting on relevant information, namely fuel capacity and unit status. There was a maker for speed and altitude in the corner, and in the other an ammo count; he raised a brow at the twin bars, wondering if this thing really had a thirty six millimeter chain gun.

"That's it?" he mumbled at the readouts. No turret machine gun? No secondary autocannon or hidden missile pods? One twenty millimeter under barrel cannons were nothing to scoff at he conceded, but still, the Tornado's only real onboard weapons were its forearm spikes, plus a hip compartment with a knife. By his standards it seemed woefully under armed.

A beeping jolted Bindl, scrambling until he hit a tiny button by accident; a pane appeared on his screen, showing Walken's flat expression. "_Lancer Four, do you read me?_"

"Ah, right. Affirmative..." he left hanging in english, mentally shrugging at the designation he was given.

"_Hunter One. Your machine is started up, are you ready to depart?_"

"I believe so, over." Testing the controls, he saw in one of his screens a green arm swivel into view. Now that he was able to actually examine the cockpit in detail, he noted it bore a superficial resemblance to a Panzer-Hummel in layout. Except as he squinted closer, he realized his primary screens had a lower quality than what he was used to, a jarring detail he couldn't unsee. Out of curiosity he tested another button, and the screen transformed into a pastiche of purples and reds. He grunted and switched off thermals.

"_Copy that, see you in the air._" Walken flicked off his end, and at the same time a low humming roar filtered through his cockpit. He managed to swivel his head sideways enough to catch the Raptor taking off, slowly rising off the ground to about a hundred meters or so, before shooting up like a missile.

"This is the worst mistake of my life." Bindl mumbled. Rippling his fingers down his handles, he shook his head and took a breath. "Concentrate, you can do this. They taught a child how to fly, which means it'll be easy. You can do this Hiars, you'll be fine."

000

Bindl was not fine.

"Not good not good!" he yelped at his guts twisting from his wide roll, the world outside his screen twisting around nauseatingly fast. Stability was a fond memory now, all he had now was terror and dry heaves, his empty stomach alternating between lunging for his throat or trying to escape through his rectum.

Sweat beads threatened to drip into his eyes, necessitating a quick release of his white knuckled grip to wipe it away, in the process making his altitude suddenly start dropping. Immediately he retook the handle and overcorrected, this time almost making him black out from the rapid twist rightways. In doing so, he accidentally pushed them forward, increasing his acceleration by an unsafe degree.

"Scheiße!" Bindl gasped at the G-forces pressing him against his seat, eliciting a strained grimace from testing his acceleration.

He forced his hands to ease off, hearing the whining roar of the Tornado's engines lower in pitch a small amount, forcing the machine to level out. Not enough to completely banish the nauseating stress his body was under however. Still, ten minutes into the flight and he was starting to get used to it, slowly anyway. Enough that he felt confident enough to disengage the autopilot, though his hand never strayed far from its indicator.

Gritting his teeth, he moved his controls back further to reduce his velocity, watching the view screens cease to whip by him so fast. Each large panel showed a high resolution of both a clear sky and sparse grasslands, which he soared above from hundreds of meters in the air. Helpful icons flicked on to inform him, stinging his eyes when the brace shined lights directly into his irises. At least when he wasn't descending; for a man who generally wasn't afraid of heights, he certainly had a negative reaction to plummeting towards the ground at high speeds.

Thus far, his assessment was that flying a Tactical Surface Fighter was almost, but not quite, completely unlike operating a Panzer-Hummel.

With that said however, once the worst of his jitters wore off and he began to actually study his cockpit, he became increasingly puzzled at what he found. Besides the screen quality, he noted its computers were reacting slower than his work tablet, meaning its processors were worse than a contemporary fighter jet. He might have written that part off as being an older TSF, except it was supposed to be modernized.

But made its other characteristics all the more confusing; it had to be built out of a material unknown to European science, something durable enough to use as armor, yet light enough to let an eighteen meter tall construct fly like he was doing. He guessed a composite substance of some kind, but more than that he couldn't guess. Whatever it was, its properties were ahead of anything he was familiar with, and he could only imagine how it could revolutionize all walks of life.

The Tornado's radar went off, momentarily alarming him until he remembered. A black mass flew in front of his screen, needing a second to discern its shape; the Raptor was even sleeker airborne compared to on the ground, and doubly as intimidating. Especially since his sensors kept having trouble locking onto the TSF, relying on a continually broadcasting IFF signal to keep track of it. Even when the Tornado directly looked at the machine, the resolution inexplicably dropped, whether on normal viewing or infrared. He couldn't figure out how its designers managed to install stealth technology into that thing.

Why it had stealth though, that was something he understood.

His radio beeped twice, the cue to fumble a moment to find the right button again. Hitting it brought momentary static in his headset that cleared up quickly.

"_Lancer Four, do you copy?_" Major Walken's authoritative voice inquired. At the same time a new pane appeared on a side screen, showing his face inside his own cockpit, along with an icon on the top which told him it was two way. Bindl released a breath.

"I read you Hunter One." he reported.

"_Your altitude is at two hundred meters and your velocity is six hundred kay-pee-ach. If this were a combat operation, you would've been shot out of the sky by now._" he told him in a lecturer's tone.

"I'm sure this thing has enough mobility to negate that problem Major. Besides, it's dangerous to fly any lower." Bindl replied; his anger towards Walken hadn't diminished by much, not to mention he was certain he wasn't actually a superior officer in the EU's system. He wasn't obligated to all the usual respect.

"_Not against what we fought. For open country like this, even skimming the ground may not be safe enough._" Walken replied flatly, by the sound of his tone choosing not to notice his attitude.

When the Raptor banked to the side Bindl copied him, feeling the Tornado respond lazily in comparison to his sharp turn. Computer quality aside, there was still a two generation technology gap between their TSFs. The performance difference looked to be as stark as a Britannian Glasgow next to that Lancelot contraption in the news from the Far East.

"Why's that? The BETA?" Bindl recalled the name after a moment. "It's my understanding they're a horde of insect monsters. What do they have that can neutralize one of these machines?"

"_They use what's called Laser Class." _Walken answered immediately; his tone unexpectedly became strained. _"They're three meters tall and have a pair of big eyes, and as the name implies they shoot lasers._"

Bindl opened his mouth to say that was ridiculous, and then he recalled that he was in a seventeen meter tall flying mech from another world. "Dangerous?"

"_They single handedly neutralized air power as a military doctrine. Those things are the reason TSFs are used instead of conventional aircraft._" Walken explained. His Raptor dipped down, and with a grimace he copied him, coming closer and closer to the ground. For a moment he feared he would impact, but at twenty meters away he banked, veering upwards to end up less than five meters from Algerian soil.

For a moment static laced the channel, due to the Raptor hitting its afterburners and taking off, turning into a blur from sheer boost; Bindl could barely track the black shape racing along the ground, swiftly weaving between stubby hills at high speeds. Meanwhile he kept the Tornado cruising above the area, making no move to attempt those maneuvers himself, knowing if he tried his machine would be a write off. From on high he could tell Walken was much rougher on the uptake than necessary, as if he was practicing dodging enemy TSFs giving chase. Or something worse, a thought that brought a shiver to his clammy skin.

A minute in and he regained altitude, twirling for a moment on his way back to his location, and with a tilt of his controls the Tornado banked to match his direction. When the channel cleared up once more he cleared his throat.

"Major, what about the other types?" he inquired with a frown.

Walken didn't look offended. "_They differ based on the situation, but in the larger herds-ah, BETA swarms, you're liable to see all the usual strains fulfilling different tactical roles._"

"Larger swarms? You mean in the thousands range?" Bindl raised a brow. He tried to think of what kind of forces he could bring to bear against these BETA, though he was sure the optimal solution was to bury them under artillery; it worked during the Russo-Ottoman wars a century ago to crack open Fortress Constantinople, as well as destroying several Russian armies until the legendary Marshal Mel'nikov routed an entire Union Corp. Such tactics should work against the BETA creatures.

"_Hundreds of thousands per herd, millions for the Central Asian Hives. The biggest are larger than a lot of countries._"

A beeping warning made Bindl yoke his controls up, righting the Tornado from its unplanned descent, owing to him unconsciously leaning on his controls too much. A minute passed before he righted his course, fortunately a safe distance from crashing into the Raptor.

"Millions..." he repeated slowly, eyes wide.

"_During the invasion of Western Europe there were so many BETA you couldn't see the ground, and the Soviets used to face huge incursions on Kamchatka every other week or so. The BETA can trade a thousand lives for every human soldier and it'd still be a net win._" Walken explained grimly.

Doubt tried to worm its way into his mind, telling Bindl that this was an exaggeration at best, and an outright fabrication at worst. But at the same time, he tried imagining what Walken was saying. And after a moment he found that he simply couldn't; his mind conjured up nightmares from his childhood, due to his Priest at the time giving rousing sermons aimed at making him terrified of Hell. Those memories were worse than picturing the human death toll. A groaning breath preceded him shaking his head, trying to regain his reasoning.

An interruption came in the form of his radio going off again, as before accompanied by a picture icon. Hitting the right button opened a new pane, showing an attractive blonde woman on a dark background, her face sporting a suit brace much like him and Walken.

"_Hunter One, do you copy?_" she inquired in english, albeit with an accent he vaguely recognized; he was sure it was Finnish.

"_I read you Hunter Two, sit-rep._" Walken replied crisply.

"_New orders sir, from General O'Reedy. Return to base immediately._" Hunter Two instructed.

"_Roger_." was his reply. Bindl stiffened, but before he could ask the Raptor changed course and took off, slowing after a moment to let his Tornado catch up. All around him he heard the TSF labor to match Walken's brisk pace. Once he was on the right track however, he opened a channel.

"Hunter Two, what is going on?" he probed. Right after saying that he internally winced; Walken was still on the line, she likewise wasn't part of his rank structure, and for all he knew she outranked him.

On the screen her expression creased, something that earned a slight nod from Walken's pane. "_Lancer Two, we're pulling out of this zone. By the sound of things Central Command is going on the offensive._"


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: A bit of an explanation is needed here. This chapter and the next were supposed to be one big update, but after rechecking it over and over, I decided to split it up. I mean, 10k words are a wee bit unwieldy. So have a new chapter.**

**Also, announcing a bit of a plan revision while I'm at it; I was gonna make a side story for a wider POV of events going on here instead of focusing solely on the MC, but after reconsideration I'll just be folding those into this one. So if anyone's sick of the MC, there'll be others popping in soon enough.**

**Hope you guys like this one!**

* * *

_Western Mediterranean, four days later..._

A couple lights blinked in the morning gloom, intermittent flashes which served to warn any ships nearby to stay away from the carrier's bulk. Less than a kilometer away three more vessels moved in formation, two EU Navy Frigates and the small IJN Minegumo keeping up with its larger allies, forming a rough triangle around the central ship. None showed any lights in the darkness, nor were any aircraft or smaller boats patrolling around their hulls. They had been like this since they departed from Mallorca five hours ago.

On the USS Lexington's cramped bridge, Bindl worked his shoulders and kept his grimace contained. He was perfectly aware of his blue fatigues standing out compared to the beige clad sailors bustling around him, although only a handful deigned to peek in his direction after he arrived, and few did so more than once. This was the part he hated, waiting for something to happen. Waiting and not doing anything beside listening to the endless chatter, sailors talking to their counterparts elsewhere to make sure everything was running smoothly. Underneath the monotone of orders and checks ran undercurrents of anxiety.

When a door creaked open he snapped over faster than necessary, identifying the familiar outline of Captain Avery stepping onto the bridge. In his path sailors of all ranks stopped what they were doing to acknowledge him. Like them Bindl saluted; the official decision from Paris as of yesterday was to treat the NUN militaries as part of the EU command structure, although advice for how things were supposed to fit together was forthcoming. He wished that directive came before his flight in Algeria.

He nodded in acknowledgment as he stopped by him. "Captain Bindl. Commander Hamill, Lieutenant Irons, any news?"

"No change sir." reported Irons from across the room, returning to a headset the very second she received a nod, snapping her fingers and pointing at another sailor. At the same time a tiny ceiling projector flicked on, superimposing information displays on a section of tinted glass. It was a primitive hologram by Bindl's standards, but it was preferable to hovering over someone's post.

"Not a thing skipper." answered a greying officer by the name of Hamill, leaving behind a radar technician to go to Avery's side, crossing his arms to reveal a crude prosthetic hand. "Everything's set on this end. All TSFs are ready for launch, we have two units on the catapult and four in line. The rest are moving up the elevator once there's room."

"Excellent, good work." Captain Avery gazed out the windows to the deck, visible only because of lines of lights showing the ship's outline and many personnel in bright colored vests, working to get their charges ready.

At his flank Bindl squinted a little past the displays, making out the American TSFs on the deck, a line of four by the conn tower and two machines on the cleared runway, those braced units now sporting large cases mounted atop of their shoulders; disposable missile pods he was told. All were transported to their spots without trouble, with a pair stepping off the marked elevator by the directions of their flight crews, waving glowing batons in clear patterns to order around the F-18s. A part of him was fascinated by the sheer normalcy they gave to the giant machines, unbothered by the massive size difference between them.

By the front window a sailor turned around without leaving her station, and with a salute delivered and a received nod she hit a few switches. One such click turned on the radio intercom, connecting them to the overarching net shared by all forces aboard. And with that the projector added two new panes to the side.

"Bridge to Black Knives and Wardogs, status update." Avery demanded.

_"Vee-Em-Eff Three Eighteen is all set to go Bridge._" reported a voice belonging to an attractive blonde. Bindl ashamedly recalled her name faster than others he met onboard; Lieutenant Lilia Kjellberg, a twentish woman who really didn't look like a pilot (or aviator as she insisted she be called for some reason), due to her appealing figure and twin hair bun with long tails. But apparently she was a USMC squadron leader, albeit not as experienced as their late commander. His many questions regarding their... everything, was put aside once he found out these troops were seasoned veterans. They weren't sending children into battle here.

A moment passed before the next pane spoke_. "Seventeenth Flight reporting Bridge. Wardogs one through five are ready to depart at your command."_

"Acknowledged Wardog." Avery nodded. Thanks to his position he was unable to catch a glimpse of Bindl wincing, who checked for any cameras that could let her see him. Upon finding none he quietly sighed in relief.

Last night was the first time he faced her since the Mallorca conference, and she was just as unfriendly there as back then. She hadn't acted spitefully admittedly, but evidently she hadn't forgiven him for his thoughtless slighting, giving him the cold shoulder once the official meeting was over with. Her attitude made the operation briefing more awkward than it needed to be, particularly since they were relying on him to interact with the EU military He wasn't the only such liaison in the fleet, but he still thought it bizarre that he was once again put forward as a middleman, not to mention as an army officer he was out of his depth. At this point he was convinced either someone in Command didn't like him or thought way too highly of his influence.

Regardless of his feelings, five Shiranui TSFs were on board, stuffing the Lexington's hangars to the brim. Together with another flight based on a different carrier, from a unit Avery called the IRG (he didn't get the chance to ask what that stood for), they represented Japan's assistance to the American dominated landing operation, although without the EU army any gains they made would be temporary.

Of course, claiming that was a different matter compared to watching two grey painted giants rising up to open air; rifles in their right hands, brick studded oval shields for the left arms, and swords clamped to their backs, the Shiranui TSFs stood tall and proud like medieval knights awaiting a crusade. Weeks had passed and he could still perfectly recall those enormous mechs saving his platoon from destruction. They seemed so much more noble than the drab blue Super Hornets, who were themselves soldiery in design and behavior.

"Those leathernecks better not do something stupid to one up the Japs." Hamill muttered as his keen eye overlooked the flight deck.

"Like what you did back in 'eighty three sir?" Irons inquired flatly, without turning away from her station.

"You take that back, cracking open those Heavy Lasers was Red squadron's objective from the start. We weren't trying to show up the Stasi goons or those Jolly Roger pricks, we just did." Hamill's tone was harsh, but his mouth was twitching up in a poorly restrained smile, rubbing the fake hand on his arm as he spoke.

Cautiously stepping closer, Bindl cleared his throat. "Commander, you were a pilot?"

"Aviator." Hamill sourly corrected before grinning. "But yeah. I was trained by one of the first Phantom drivers back in 'seventy nine. Grouchy old legless fool, you would've liked him. Survived my Eight Minutes at Istanbul in 'eighty, and helped the commies in Operation Neptune around 'eighty three. Where I got this." he waved his fake hand for emphasis.

"He lost it in escaping his Tomcat sir." Irons slyly added, causing a ripple of snorts across the bridge.

"I'll have you know I was outnumbered by Fort classes five to one missy, I got four of 'em." Hamill shot back.

Most of the terminology flew over his head, but there was one part he grasped. "I've been meaning to ask sir, what is so special about eight minutes?"

"Rite of passage for TSF drivers sir." Irons replied, going to another station to listen to a sailor quietly sharing a report. "Those first Phantom drivers had an average survival time of eight minutes against the BETA, so lasting past that point means you made it. Doesn't mean you're laser proof, but it helps."

"Average…" Bindl repeated with a gulp, eyes wide.

"It's a superstition son, hasn't been true since the Eagle hit the fields. Hell, my old Tomcat would've thrashed those guys without breaking a sweat." Hamill interjected with a shrug.

"Enough chit chat you two." Avery checked his watch, speaking aloud as he did so. "Helm, status?"

"Power and flight control are green Skipper. Engines are running a lot better now that we had some dry dock time." Irons reported.

"Tashio, Kresanica, and Ortler all report green on their ends sir." a comms officer told him.

"Theodore Roosevelt battle group is in position. Maine, Kentucky, Owari, and Shinano are on station sir. Rear Admiral Shinuchi passed along his congratulations for our good time." a younger sailor hurriedly added.

"Tell him thanks and that we're ready to start on his word." Avery commanded, sparing a glance sideways. "Are you prepared for this Captain?"

"Yes sir." Bindl nodded, nevertheless releasing a low breath. Banishing the unease proved to be harder than he expected. It wasn't every day a massive offensive was launched after all, with five nations cooperating to drive the enemy back where they came from.

Supposedly this operation, dubbed Mirror Flurry, was hatched between the NUN security council and Paris, but he only discovered the details last night. Avery briefed the relevant task force personnel in the conference room, describing their role in the overall mission: using forty TSFs and twenty machines they called Intruders, their task force were to retake Oran from an estimated seven thousand enemy soldiers led by the Argantro Knights, all while a French led army crossed Gibraltar to attack a Corp sized force, joining the EU military in driving Britannia out of Africa. Their role here was simple and straightforward.

So why did he have a bad feeling?

"We are T-minus two minutes." Hamill suddenly announced, bringing him back to the present. His face was grim, wrinkled in evident worry which didn't extend to his body language.

A palpable feeling of unease filled the bridge, the tension so strong he could cut with a knife. But even so, in the corner of the room one sailor leaned to another, speaking in a near whisper. He had to strain to hear them. "Relax man, it's just like a herd thinning op. As long as the ammo holds we'll be fine way out here."

As the seconds counted down Bindl abruptly realized he was holding his breath, and he released it to roll his shoulders. It was no use; he was just as worked up as them, falling prey to the strained anxiety that threatened to overwhelm him. Perhaps later he could look back on this whole affair and laugh, but for now he was just as stiff and silent as everyone else. He could only imagine how the pilots were feeling, seeing as they were shortly going into battle.

Avery lowered his arm. "T-Minus five. Fire support starts... now."

Within a second of the words leaving his mouth bright flashes lit up the horizon, as if lightning was striking nearby, followed by a thunderous boom which felt like drums beating down on his skull. It was impossible for Bindl to not flinch, feeling a low tremor seemingly rattle his bones. Assuaging his wounded pride was spotting a few sailors doing the same. Training asserted itself by the time the barrage paused, recovering most of his composure.

"First salvo away, time to target?" Hamill demanded sharply, plainly unaffected by the display.

"One mike sir."

When the next resounding fusillade came seconds later Bindl was ready, and this time he kept his flickering eyes on the light origin; he made out four distinct sources, each spaced a short distance apart from the other. The idea of using battleships in a modern war was still a ridiculous one, but he couldn't help feeling awed at the sheer firepower they put out. For a moment he pitied the unlucky fools on the receiving end.

"Wait for it..." Avery left hanging once an ear ringing silence descended over the bridge. But when the next salvo began he swiped a hand. "That's the cue. Get our birds in the air."

"Birds in the air, aye." Irons snapped off, causing a short lived echo amongst the crewmen who carried out the order. On the deck four jet engines ignited, turning from stubby orange gouts to blue cones, the whine from their engines increasing in pitch.

Both Super Hornets hunched over like sprinters, prepared for the rails hooked onto their feet to suddenly and violently send them off, racing along until they were abruptly flung off the flight deck entirely. For a split second the TSFs hung in midair before their swiveling jets sent them skywards, zooming away from the Lexington. The entire process lasted perhaps five seconds. Feeling the entire carrier shudder, Bindl gripped a console as the next two Super Hornets stepped into place, and proceeded to repeat the event without a hitch. And again, repeating until all eight machines were airborne, forming a tiny group he saw thanks to their engines. Each one cruised just above the Mediterranean surface, hanging back for their allies to catch up.

For the five Shiranuis, their departure was far less extravagant; each one throttled up their engines to a hover and stepped off the flight deck, jerking downwards before twisting into position and taking off after the F-18s. As he tracked them he spied other glows in both directions racing towards the distant shoreline, a lot of them.

When the channel activated again, it had much more static and no visual displays to show. "_This is Black Knives One to all flights, report in."_

_"Steel Spiders flight, standing by."_

_"North Horn flight, on station."_

_"Wave Rider flight, standing by."_

_"Savage Wolves squadron, standing by."_

_"Potemkin squadron, awaiting orders."_

_"Wardog Flight is standing by."_

_"This is Hammer Fall battalion, we're in position. Don't keep us waiting Superbugs."_

_"Roger that. All units, stay low and fast, hit 'em like you mean it. You hear me Marines?"_ Kjellberg called out.

"_HOORAH!"_ Bindl winced at the volume, even though not everyone joined in on the battlecry. Smoothing out his features, he tried to focus on the task at hand, ignoring the fact that they sounded like barbarians.

Activity on the bridge picked up, the overall focus settling on the radar stations. Avery and Hamill both took their spots nearby, with the Captain frequently picking up to check on the other crewmen, his sharp eyes searching for any problem. Bindl however stayed where he was, at most making sure he was close to the comms; without knowing their codes or procedures, the best thing for him to do was stay close by if friendly forces tried to contact them. He didn't like it one bit, but orders were orders.

"_This is Wolf Three, radars got something. Two klicks out and closing fast._" the radio unexpectedly went off.

_"Copy Three, I see it too. Friendly?"_

_"Friendlies aren't from that direction. All units, break formation but stay on target. Hug the water."_ Kjellberg ordered.

"We're picking it up too Skipper, looks like ten contacts coming from Oran. Gimme me a minute and I'll verify with the other ships." Irons reported.

"Do it." Avery said, glancing over his shoulder with a tight expression. "What're they looking at Captain?"

"Sir, I believe enemy fighters. Jets." Bindl swiftly replied, raising a brow at the short lived mystified look nearly every other sailor shot him, with Avery starting to grimace. He cleared his throat. "Likely Britannian York Dovers, they're Mach Three capable interceptors. Not much ground attack ability."

"But plenty of air to air, like our ancient Corsairs." Hamill spoke up with a pained wince.

Again the radio went off, this time with a female voice in surprise. "_What the-spike! I got a spike!_"

Immediately Avery was on the comm, alarm rippling throughout his body. "All flights scatter, say again, scatter!"

_"Double spike, taking evasive maneuvers."_

_"Evade Wardog Five! Evade!"_

_"Missile incoming, deploying smoke!"_

_"Two on me! I'm hit-" _a burst of static filled the channel.

Far from the Lexington's bridge, Bindl saw flashes from the TSF flight path, momentary flickers that winked out as quickly as they formed. He gritted his teeth, helpless to act.

_"Wolf Seven is down, say again, Seven is down!"_

_"Potemkin Six, do you read me? Respond!"_

_"Riders One and Three are gone, eyes on splashdowns. Had to be anti-tank payloads."_

_"Spider Two, Knife Five. You two look banged up, recommend you disengage."_

_"Down an arm but I'll live Spider One. Knife?"_

_"Roger, damnit!"_

Avery had gone completely red, clenching a shaking fist by his side hard enough to draw blood. His eyes didn't leave the faraway aerial battle, if it could be called such.

"Casualties?" he demanded through clenched teeth.

Irons hugged her radio close, her own features hollow as she listened. "Five birds confirmed down, another five damaged. Two are returning to the fleet. Should I deploy SAR choppers?"

"Negative, get boats out there asap." Avery ordered harshly.

"Haven't seen a fighter jet in thirty years. Son of a whore, didn't even think of it." Hamill shook his head, eyes squeezed shut while he gripped a console.

Bindl was no exception, but with his strained exhale came an important question: where was their land based air cover? Friendly fighters should've already been airborne by now, preventing Britannian jets from even looking at the sea. Unless... he dismissed the silly idea before it fully formed; there was no way the EUMAF was knocked out already. But then how did the Britannians intercept those TSFs so quickly?

"Sir, contacts closing on our position!" a sailor barked. Whatever Bindl was thinking he shoved it aside; he darted to the window to peer out, in seconds making out visible dots where there were none before.

"Ah hell. Phalanxes up, tell the other ships to intercept." Avery snarled with a jabbed hand, even though Irons and Hamill were already on it.

Gun pods adjacent to the deck sprung to life, large cylinder topped turrets swiveling to the incoming fighters. Four of them opened fire, spewing a torrent of shells from nine barreled chain guns towards the incoming threats, joining similar bullet streams from the Tashio, and streaks of missiles from the Ortler and Kresanica. In seconds their fire was rewarded by a pair of red flashes, bright explosions that ended two attackers. But it wasn't enough.

Through the shouting Bindl heard fresh roars from beyond the bridge, watching many of the glowing engines veer off towards their escorts, while the rest came into visual range. For a split second he saw one of the fighters bank in a sharp midair twist, revealing the visible shape of an angular red and gold Knightmare, with twin wings on its shoulders and an anti-tank cannon mounted on one arm. It was all alone, flying without being aided by a transport.

Explosions ripped across the Lexington's flight deck, starting from the center and working up towards the bridge. Bindl pushed a sailor out of the way right before the glass shattered, the blast throwing him away in a rain of debris and fire, not realizing what happened until his back slammed into a panel. He gasped from the impact, feeling a bright pain race through his entire body. Glass pattered off his shoulders for a moment, leaving countless tiny slices on his palms when he pushed himself upright.

Coughing at the smoke filling his lungs, he squinted through his stinging vision to locate a fire extinguisher on the far wall, along with a slumping sailor leaning beside its mount. Bindl gasped when he stumbled over, but through his dazed vision he recognized the man's face.

"Comm-ah, Commander Hamill!" he yelled past his ringing ears, stumbling towards him to grip his shoulders. "Can you hear me, I need you to-" he suddenly went silent, letting him limply crumple to the side.

Swallowing a lump, Bindl yanked the extinguisher free and darted over to the closest fire, spraying it down as much as he could. He paused long enough to let a hacking sailor brush past him to haul a screaming comrade out of harm's way. Upon spotting Irons' shuddering form he snatched her collar and dragged her away from the fires, feeling relief at seeing her chest heaving for air. In all the commotion he didn't pay much attention to his own numerous wounds.

The bridge was gone, that much was obvious. Windows were now a gaping hole, the closest stations were fried, even the ceiling lights were out, along with anyone unfortunate enough to be that close. A couple fires blazed, which he and another couple sailors worked furiously to put out. But when Bindl saw Avery's bloodstained form coughing against a wall, he dropped his extinguisher and hooked his arms under the shoulders, hearing a pained snarl as he pulled him out of immediate danger. Blood leaked from a huge gash on his shoulder, coupled with some nasty burns on his arm and thigh.

He only moved him a couple meters, setting his heavy body on another wall as the door flew open, a few sailors rushing inside to combat the last of the fires. A medic tried to tend Avery, but with a snarl he shoved the hovering man away, then gripped Bindl by his shirt.

"You, Bindl." he hissed, teeth clenched. "Listen to me, go below."

"But Captain-" his protest was cut off by a violent yank closer to Avery's grimacing face.

"Get your ass on a dingy, and go find that Euro commander. I'm not letting you throw our lives away. You hear me?" Avery growled, staring into his eyes. Without waiting for confirmation he shoved him away and croaked, "Lieutenant?"

Staggering over to collapse to one knee, Irons heaved while clutching a wad of cloth to a bloody wound on her shoulder, not resisting him grabbing her forearm. "Ah, sir?"

"Get him to land, make sure those army idiots actually do something." Avery snarled, throwing her sagging limb towards the door.

Hesitating at the pained wailing around him, Bindl initially resisted her yanking on his arm, but with a groan he turned away from the carnage, blowing past a medic hurrying inside through the door. One rifle armed sailor was on the way after them, but one look from Irons and he drew to a stop.

"You, with me. Move." she barked, leading the way with Bindl on her flank. While running he grimaced at the damage, the gaping tears on the flight deck; that alone would surely put the Lexington out of commission for a while. Once they ran below it was even worse, the damage being furiously tended to at every turn made him grimace. That and the bodies, a row of sheet covered forms being assembled in an open room once they were in the hangar.

In minutes a small boat hit the water alongside a half dozen others, breaking off from the main formation to power towards shore. The rifle armed sailor was behind the throttle, while a gasping Irons snatched a case hidden under a seat, a first aid kit she cracked open beside her. Bindl certainly didn't to be told to help, but a scowling wave conscripted him into doing so anyway, even though his own injuries were starting to noticeably ache. He thought the medical supplies he tore into were below EU standards, yet he had the feeling mentioning that was a bad idea.

Irons yelped when he applied a bandage, having to tear away part of her uniform in the process. Bindl wanted to avert his eyes from her bare skin for modesty, but he had to see for this part, especially when her deep glare speared him in place.

"Those were my friends back there. You better get some results, or I'm drowning you in the shallows." she warned, the dangerous look in her eyes only fading after he helped her inject a morphine dose into her leg. Lying her down on a seat, he exchanged a pensive look with the sailor behind the motor, who shook his head.

Soon, but not soon enough, they pulled up to the dark shore, nearby where the briefing said the EU army would be located after the Mostaganem siege was broken yesterday (according to rumors courtesy of Walken's battalion). Bindl hoped they were close anyway, he didn't know how to navigate on the water. A scrape and a rattle announced the dingy's controlled beaching, leaving him free to vault over the side and splash onto the gravely shore. It was dark out but growing into a dull gloom, yet still the unnamed sailor tossed him a flashlight, which he mumbled a thanks to and flicked it on.

Throbs were starting to pop up from all over his body, but Bindl ignored them. Scrambling across the crunchy soil, he scrambled up a raised drop with great effort, grunting from dizziness as he crawled over the incline. When he stood up he came face to face to a gun barrel pointed at him, haloed by a pair of bright headlights.

"Identify yourself." snapped a voice, something that made Bindl brighten up considerably.

"I'm Captain Bindl of the EU army, my ID." he replied in french, pulling a chained tab from his pocket in spite of another blue infantryman training a weapon on his chest. Upon holding it out he let the soldier pluck the chip from his grip, running it through a scanner; when it beeped both men suddenly lowered their rifles to uneasily salute. He waved them off. "I have wounded down on the beach, and I need to speak to whoever's in charge of your unit, right away."

Despite some mistrustful hesitation, Bindl managed to get the patrol VBL loaded with Irons and the guard, and they took off as fast as possible. Once they came into sight of the firebase his heart soared; he saw no fires, no casualties, only rows of Fuchs APCs, Leopard tanks, and a whole formation of lime painted Panzer-Hummels, weapons lowered and the machines unpowered. A crackling radio directed them towards a small field hospital, which looked both idle and empty of patients.

What mattered to him was a tall officer by the entrance, his pristine fatigues topped by a sharp brimmed cap, and a sour expression laid on the VBL roughly parking by him. Bindl made sure Irons and the sailor were on their way inside (regardless of their suspicious escort's glares) and dusted himself off, walking up to present himself before the commander. Thanks to the singes and his many cuts, he contrasted sharply against his faultless appearance.

"Major sir, I'm Captain Bindl." he added a salute after noticing his eyes narrowing, even though his instincts told him not to; they were in the middle of a firebase sure, but snipers could still be in the area.

"Captain. I'm Major Sieghart." the older officer curtly introduced himself, after a moment nodding to lower his arm. "Assuming you really are a European soldier, given you brought some Britannians with you."

Bindl hesitated before clearing his throat. "Major sir, I was dispatched from the offshore NUN naval task force to ascertain what happened to the Oran reinforcements. The air wings need support as soon as possible."

"Did they now? I find your lack of decorum concerning Captain." Major Sieghart raised a brow. "But suppose I humor your eagerness. I have my orders, as should you."

"But, sir-" he tried to protest, meeting a narrowed glare.

"My orders are to wait here, I will not allow my battalion to be caught in the middle of that bombardment. General Smilas made his directives clear." he told him coldly.

"But-wait. General Smilas? Sir?" Bindl raised a brow. For some reason the name sounded familiar, he knew he heard it somewhere before.

"Now I know you're a spy. Lieutenant General O'Reedy was reassigned to the EU Expeditionary Force to Russia yesterday, Major General Smilas assumed command last night. Until I receive confirmation from him, I am not moving my battalion, and neither will any other unit." Major Sieghart turned to walk away dismissively.

Snarling under his breath, he jogged to his side with a deep grimace. "But Major! What about the assault?"

"Not my concern. Report yourself to the Command Post Captain Bindl, you'll be assigned to a unit in need of your glory seeking presence. Now begone." Major Sieghart marched past him without a second glance, ignoring his gawking.

Distant booms reached his ears. Flicking to the west, he saw flashes of light silhouetted by Oran's modest skyline, growing brighter now that dawn was breaking. The entire operation hinged on these troops being there, aiding the TSFs to defeat the entrenched foe. And now he was stuck here, helpless yet again. Unable to do a thing to fix this mess.

Sparing a look at Major Sieghart's back, a crazy idea entered Bindl's mind. Not an unorthodox or politically incorrect one, something that could either bemuse or irritate his commanders, but something that was most certainly illegal. Something that would guarantee a court martial, which could very easily end with him being put in front of a wall. Internally he balked at the sheer incredulity of the thought. It was stupid, shortsighted. Pure insanity.

It was happening.

Major Sieghart gasped when a fist smacked the back of his neck. He staggered and yelped, struggling ineffectually to his attacker latching onto his back, forced into a chokehold. A cut strewn hand was clamped over his mouth to silence him, while strong arms constricted around his throat to cut off his air supply, relaxing and tightening repeatedly to try to keep a balance. In seconds his thrashing slowed, eyes rolling up as he went limp. Only then did Bindl release his hold, letting Major Sieghart limply tumble to the ground.

His eyes were as wide as saucers, roaming over Major Sieghart's softly breathing form with raw disbelief. Short hiccups of gasps escaped him, coinciding with his limbs turning rubbery, and his hands starting to shake uncontrollably.

"Mein Gott..." Bindl whispered. He... he just choked a superior officer into unconsciousness. For what?

Squeezing his eyes shut, Bindl shook his head while forcing his breathing to stop wavering. There was no turning back now. He had to see this through, whether he wanted to or not.

Dragging him to an ambulance truck nearby, he used a few cleanish rags to tie around his mouth, wrists and ankles, then left him trussed up in the back. When the door slammed shut he took a few unsteady steps back and breathed deeply, trying in vain to soothe his roiling guts. Shrugging his shoulders did nothing to help, but still he turned away to jog, searching for a moment to find the right prefab building nearby. His crawling skin made marching calmly nearly impossible.

A few officers and enlisted men were busy inside, all of them glancing up at the scuffed newcomer strolling through the doors, ignoring the twin guards who trailed after him. Bindl hesitated a second, then cleared his throat.

"I'm Captain Bindl. By order of General Smilas, I am assuming command."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Sorry for this one taking so long, life stuff got in the way. Deeply appreciate the reviews and the favorites though, honest.**

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A low whine turned into a rumble, indicating the Panzer-Hummel was activated. Bindl dropped into the cockpit and hit a switch with a bandaged hand, causing the hatch above him to close, his glowing displays banishing the split second darkness. He then checked energy status, warning icons, and his munition counters: all green. Lastly he fumbled with the headset, making sure it was on before he gripped his controls, engaging its landspinners to drop onto the paved soil.

"Company status?" he demanded, flicking on a widget block installed in the corner; a new display appeared on his main screen, showing a rough map of the terrain and markers for friendly units. He never used a commander module before, his basics course on Knightmare operations didn't cover that part, but he thought he could handle it. With their UAV blimps having been shot down already, this would have to do.

"_Copy CB-One-G, all green._" his radio answered, that of a recently promoted Captain. Bindl honestly didn't know the man's name, he didn't even know what battalion this was until someone brought it up; the Seventy Fifth Motorized Armor, utilizing Panzer-Hummels as its primary strike arm. When someone mentioned the One Forty Ninth Panzergrenadiers adjacent to the firebase he hesitated, but forced himself to carry on. The staff officers appeared to have taken him at his word (expressing their eagerness to take the fight to the enemy), but all it would take is one phone call to put an end to his plan, and very likely his life as well.

"_Sir, will we have air support? Over._" requested what had to be a lieutenant.

"We will. Over." Bindl replied quickly during his final preparations.

"_What about all the flak guns? There has to be hundreds in the city. We lost a whole squadron of fighters who tried to-_"

"They'll be there." he snapped while slamming his panel. After a moment of silence he went back to his task.

Upon seeing his force icons on the screen, Panzer-Hummels and IFVs screening a platoon of Leopards, with APC mounted infantry in the rear, he nodded once. It was a sound arrangement to keep his most vulnerable units protected in the meantime. When he spoke to the radio again, he did his utmost not to stutter or show doubt.

"Forward."

Bindl sped in his Panzer-Hummel, feeling the machine jitter from the bumpy road. Muffled booms seeped through his cockpit, the few artillery guns seconded for the battalion's use giving some covering bombardment. He knew that would signal their advance, but given the ongoing aerial invasion, he assumed the Britannians already knew they were coming. With luck, other formations would start their own attacks once they saw him moving. So he hoped.

He gripped his controls tighter than necessary, not objecting to another few Panzer-Hummels going in front of his unit. After what happened in southern Algeria he felt some disappointment with this Knightmare now; a bumpy yet moderately slow ride in a squat walker just didn't compare to flying in that Tornado. Even though he preferred this machine by far, he admitted it felt so weak and puny now.

"_Wish we had more armor, over._" spoke a pilot before he clicked it on.

"We make do with what we have." he stated with a grimace; his deception meant that he couldn't request aid, regardless whether or not there was a heavy panzer division in the sector. Just meant he had to manage the few Leopards under his command.

"_Coming up on the bombardment zone. I hope those Navy guys know we're here._" an officer said grimly. Bindl glanced to the sides and felt himself leer at a rather large crater just off the main road, one of several as he looked up. Here and there he spotted a few smoking wrecks, mainly vehicle hulls scattered about, with a legless Knightmare lying just off the road. Its splayed pose made it appear like a dead man.

Dismissing the shivers, he refocused on the closest suburb ruins they closed in on. There were no enemies in sight, and no hostile fire met them. Then the lead Panzer-Hummel exploded.

Bindl's machine was buffeted by the blast, right as bullets and shrapnel pinged off his hull. Cursing loudly, he disengaged his autocannon safeties and swept to the source, spotting a few black armored infantry poking up to lob a missile at an IFV, turning it into a fireball. He raked fire across the Britannians as the troops opened up on other concealed positions, responding to the unexpected strikes with their own, managing to scythe down a few infantry squads before they could shoot. In seconds their aim shifted to a half dozen new contacts racing in weaving patterns over a crater lip, blue coated Sutherlands trading fire with the Europeans.

"Weapons free!" Bindl yelled, pushing past a burning wreck towards the closest Knightmare. Except, as he realized starkly after discovering its purple hull switching directions to meet him, it wasn't a Sutherland.

Immediately he opened his missile pods and unloaded at the Knightmare, barely aware of his gasping. The Gloucester danced around most of the barrage, with only a couple projectiles impacting on its shoulder armor, leaving behind dents and carbon scoring once it breezed through the explosions. From its side a huge lance was swung around, an archaic thing the Britannians made into an anti-tank weapon, and redoubled its speed. Ordinarily, a fight between a close quarters specced Knightmare and a Panzer-Hummel boiled down to drowning the offender in bullets; but his support was occupied, and it was closing fast.

"Schieße!" he put himself in reverse and opened up with everything he had. Remaining missiles, autocannons, even the stubby machine guns; chunks of armor were sheared off, but it kept coming, his unsteady machine and bumpy terrain causing most of his shots to miss. A problem the Gloucester didn't have.

His eyes went wide when the Knightmare shot towards him lance first. No matter what he did or how he moved, that sharp point kept inexorably coming towards him, to skewer his cockpit and prevent him from escaping. His last idea was as desperate as his situation; launching his lone slash harken, he watched helplessly as the Gloucester fired its own twin hooks, knocking his aside and impacting the hull at the same aside. Upon feeling the Panzer-Hummel wrench violently Bindl cursed and yanked his emergency level, plunging the cockpit into darkness a heartbeat before it suddenly blasted away, throwing him against his restraints. The entire pod rocked from the unmistakable boom of his machine exploding.

He hit the dirt seconds later, knocking the breath out of him from the impact. Above the hatch popped open almost like an afterthought, revealing the outside was no better; gunfire and explosions boomed in every direction, with bullets filling the air way too close for comfort. Whining jet roars, shuddering booms of vehicles being messily exploded, and distant screams made for a deafeningly hellish cacophony. Climbing out the cockpit had a bullet tear onto the hull right by him, earning a quick curse as he jerked away.

When he glanced back, it was just in time for his foe to throw aside his burning Panzer-Hummel, its blackened form refocusing on his position a mere ten meters away. The Gloucester raised its rifle towards his pod to finish him off, already turning away towards fresh targets nearby. It didn't notice the wind picking up at its back.

Below him the ground rumbled, bouncing him with a surprised yelp just in time for a massive shape to sweep across the Gloucester. In the blink of an eye everything from the waist up was sheared away, leaving behind a pair of legs that tottered for a moment, then limply dropped.

"What the-" Blinking to make sure he wasn't dead, Bindl craned his head back as the ground thumped again. The shape swung up to easily catch a cannon's shell impacting on its flat facing, before the building sized blade was twirled the right way once more, jutting to the side in a ready posture. Huge jets primed to launch the black and orange giant ahead, sallying overhead so quickly he was blown along in its backwash. Not before he saw what it did however; two Sutherlands reversed as fast as their landspinners could carry them, and for their troubles the concave sword cleaved the pair apart in a wide slash.

Mid swing the giant whipped around to peer at another closing Knightmare, this one armed with an anti-tank lance as well. The new Gloucester evaded whatever scattered fire the Europeans mustered, and when it was close enough the pilot launched both slash harkens at the TSF, both hooks aimed at its chest. In one move the black TSF leaned back a little to not only dodge the harkens by a close margin, but also reaching across to snatch the cables in midair, its clawed fingers curling around the lines. After that the TSF contemptuously swung the opposite direction, ripping away the Gloucester to send it sailing away over a hill.

Taking his eyes off the TSF was a difficult task, not in the least because it was yet another type he never saw before. But unlike other variants, this machine was almost unrecognizable in comparison; its armor was angularly sculpted, from its twin toed feet up its recessed knees, staying sharp (literally as he looked closer at its knee and forearm plating) all the way to its broad shoulders. Finally the head possessed a tall plume like crest, which he saw thanks to his orange visor lingering on him for a moment. A gut feeling told him this was a special kind of unit. Gasping as he staggered upright, Bindl suddenly remembered something important.

Taking off in a dead sprint towards the closest EU troops, he waved his arms and shouted at the top of his lungs. "Hold fire! Hold fire!"

For several Panzer-Hummels and a squad's worth of troops cowering behind a Fuchs, they sent him incredulous looks without pointing their weapons away from the TSF, no doubt shaking in abject terror. But all he cared about was making sure no one shot at it, not the least because he was sure they wouldn't do enough damage to slay it before the pilot returned the favor. A megaphone crackling on briefly caused everyone to flinch, himself included.

"_Euro forces, I'll escort you to the city. We're in need of reinforcements._" said the speaker in synthesized french, but strangely it was spoken flatly, without any emotional weight.

Snatching a radio from a trooper's frozen grip, Bindl quickly twisted its dials to the right frequency. "Copy that, we're on our way."

"_Understood. My name is First Lieutenant Shiro-hang on._" the TSF reached up to snag a massive rifle from its back pylon obediently tilting towards its hand, and took aim from chest level. A concussive blast rocked him in place, but in return an explosion bloomed on a hill nearby, what looked like an enemy IFV being turned into burning scrap metal. "_My callsign is Horn Three. You should get moving._"

"Ah, copy." Bindl clicked his radio off, inhaling deeply before he switched channels. "All units, push forward."

His borrowed troops quailed at his command, but after a moment of fearful hesitation they complied, putting their vehicles in gear and continuing to advance. Bindl hitched a ride on a Fuchs instead of taking another Panzer-Hummel, accepting a flak jacket and a rifle to put on, as well as a helmet; all of a sudden his enthusiasm for Knightmare driving was missing, he had no idea what changed.

Horn Three blasted away without a backwards glance, firing its weapon as it flew low and fast over the wrecked rooftops. A few dozen Panzer-Hummels and IFVs pursued with all the haste a ground based force could muster in a bombed out suburb, which was to say not very fast. In return an octuple of heavy Leopards took point for the remaining battalion, their heavy armor withstanding whatever ordnance the Britannians threw at them, dishing out high explosive shells to anything unfortunate enough to be caught in their sights. Six flak guns and two missile batteries plus their guards were destroyed along the way, as bizarre as he found it to see AAA guns placed so far forward.

Opposition picked up once they entered a high rise district, with gunfire raining down from above. Gasping and cursing, Bindl jumped out of the Fuchs with the men, ignoring several being cut down to shoot at their unseen attackers. Pockmarks tore in the ground right beside him as he ducked into cover, with a bullet dinging off his helmet with a rattle. Ruined storefronts and apartment entrances became makeshift pillboxes, knocking out several Panzer-Hummels before they were blown away.

Snarling in pain from a stray round ripping into his arm, he needed a few seconds to realize one of the men was shouting at him. He was about to yell for an answer when he heard it; jet engines getting louder by the second.

From around a corner a Shiranui coasted into view, thrusters blazing to arrest its rapid velocity, gun blazing at unseen targets down the street as its shield sparked from repeated shots. Both jump units swiveled to propel it their way, evading a torrent of missiles that were a millisecond from impacting. Bindl feared it was about to crash into them, but at fifty meters distant it boosted enough to sail above them, one of its feet coming within reach of his Fuchs, and cleanly missed them. Mid flight it leaned to the side, letting its shield rip into a building facing where enemies were firing, shearing away a cascade of debris across the street.

It hit the ground with a hefty impact and twisted around, firing off a burst at a pursuing VTOL who couldn't dodge at that range, impacting the fragile craft to obliterate it entirely, sending it careening into another building. The Shiranui primed its jets, but then its head unit swiveled towards the Euro formation.

Thanks to the ringing in his ears Bindl missed the first part of its rapid speech, the best he could tell was the pilot wasn't Marimo._ "-artillery batteries pointed at the docks. The Intruders can't land while they're intact, and none of us can get close enough."_

"Alright, do what you can to cover us!" he yelled, barely hearing an acknowledgment before he was ordering the battalion to move out.

Overhead he saw more TSFs zipping overhead, maneuvering between buildings to rain ordnance down below. One thing was immediately obvious: they weren't unchallenged. Missiles and flak guns chased after every F-18 or Shiranui he saw, quite a few shells impacting as he watched. One oddly jaggedly designed TSF raced around an intersection corner in their path, showing a blur of motion accompanied by a torrent of fire at a platoon's worth of Sutherlands in pursuit, all armed with cannons and firing after the giant. They were so focused on chasing the TSF the Leopards managed to get the drop on them, eliminating two machines before the rest scattered.

Slowly their advance ground to a halt. Panzer-Hummels raked fire on Knightmares, infantry kept enemy ground troops from closing, and the Leopards formed a cordon flanked by IFVs. More and more Britannians kept pouring in to pin them down, claiming Euro lives thanks to catching them in the middle of a street. Occupied by ducking behind a tank, Bindl didn't get the credit for ordering the infantry into the closest buildings, searching for cover and new firing positions. Things grew harder when a bullet slammed into his flak jacket, whipping him around with an irate curse.

Behind their formation a blue Super Hornet came to a coasting halt in a pounding stagger, one jump unit busted and unusable, facing down another street with two rifles discharging. As he watched the back pylons swiveled while its arms spaced apart, allowing both reserve weapons to swing under its armpits; the volume of fire suddenly doubled, blazing away to create a series of explosions just out of sight.

Four slash harkens sailed out without warning, flanking the TSF from its back and side, latching onto its leg armor. It swiveled its arm guns to deal with them, but right then an apartment facing at its chest height blew open, in the blink of an eye revealing a careening Gloucester gracelessly plummeting at the Super Hornet in a shower of debris; the point of an anti-tank lance punched right through its cockpit when the Knightmare's weight collided, piercing the hull to sink in far. Gunfire cut out while the entire TSF sagged from the sudden impact, its many operating lights winked out as it limply collapsed against a high rise. The Gloucester rode the fallen giant all the way down, bouncing in place from the hard landing as dust rained around its blemished form.

"No..." Bindl froze, his hiccuping gasp not audible to even his own ears. The Gloucester ripped out its lance and jumped off the slain Super Hornet, speeding off with a pair of Sutherlands on its tail. None of them gave the hard pressed Europeans a second glance.

More roaring from overhead caught his attention, peeking up to discover a trio of Britannian gunships flying into view, heading right for his position. But in seconds a sharp whine joined them; a tiny shape crested a skyscraper to plummet towards them, revealing itself as the familiar shape of that red and gold flying Knightmare, taking point for the gunships.

"Scatter!" he screamed, sprinting towards a building as the flyers opened fire, raining missiles and shells all over his troops. Bright explosions lit up his former position while he ran, buffeted by a wave of searing heat he barely avoided by ducking around a pillar, cringing and coughing at the backwash of awful smoke.

Bindl wasn't sure how long it took to dissipate, nor for a span of ringing silence to descend over the immediate area. Panting in the foul air, he risked a peek around the corner, and found burning remains where his men were moments ago. Grimacing, he took his hand away from the radio and rethought his options. Wounded, surrounded, armed with a rifle only, and all by himself? Things were looking bleak.

But in the end, he squared up his shoulders and decided to press forward. Too much was riding on this to give up now.

He ducked out of sight and ran as fast he could, avoiding the Britannians closing in to hunt for survivors. Legally they were supposed to take prisoners, but he didn't think they would this time, not that he could stick around to find out. Pausing long enough to let a Gloucester flanked by two Sutherlands drive up the adjacent street, he grimaced at the lance streaked by red passing by his cover.

Without a map, Bindl's only means of navigation was to follow the salty air. Ducking behind abandoned cars, hiding in empty buildings, avoiding foot patrols and vehicles, he kept moving steadily. Above him gunships and rarely TSFs flew, lasting seconds before they were out of range, if there wasn't a sudden explosion either nearby or distantly. Nothing stopped him, until he burst through a side door and into a bombed out building, one that made him halt once he processed the sight. It was a mosque by the decor's looks, one apparently used for target practice based on the way the front was blown inwards. Grimacing sympathetically, he quickly crossed himself and promised to drive out the brutes responsible.

Pressing on grew harder the closer he got to the coast. More patrols, more ruins, more wasted time confronted him at every turn. When he entered a bombed out restaurant the ground beneath him started to shake, rattling everything in sight; he had to grip an overturned table to steady himself, waiting until the earthquake passed. He spared an uncertain look at the floor, pausing a moment for aftershocks. When none came he darted through a hole in the wall.

Outside he perked up at seeing flashes of blue through building gaps, indicating he was close. Hunching behind a hunk of rubble outside, Bindl watched a Britannian squad pass by his position, a mixture of APCs and infantry walking down a debris strewn road, no Knightmares that he could see. All of a sudden each black armored trooper picked up, listening to radios for a moment before boarding the vehicles, taking off in a hurry. Hearing explosions in the distance, he assumed a general attack had commenced at last.

Sprinting across the street proved to be a mistake; chunks of asphalt gouged up around his feet, making him curse as he ran into somebody's home, diving through a broken window while the air whistled dangerously. Inside didn't improve things, with bullets tearing through the front facing right above his head. Cursing loudly, Bindl crawled away from the oncoming death towards a garage, shoving himself through to temporarily escape the barrage. Gasping at the sudden drop in light, he tried standing up to run out a side door, only to bump into something in the gloom.

"Get off-" Bindl thrashed to escape a bar catching on his rifle strap, only to pause once his vision adjusted. He blinked, realizing that what he was now thinking was pure madness. But then again, since he woke up sanity had been in short supply.

Outside the Britannians ceased firing, a squad's worth of troops slowly approaching the abandoned home with weapons raised, covered by a scout truck aiming an HMG at the front. A ratcheting clank made all of them flinch, right before they heard a whirring rumble of a small engine coming to life. It grew in pitch as the sergeant yelled to pursue their lone straggler, but by then it was too late; from behind the garage a man sized shape careened over the lawn, crashing through a thin fence into the street. It took off by the time the gunner swiveled towards him, its tiny engine wailing to the entire area.

"Verfickte Scheiße!" Bindl cursed as bullets chased him, nonetheless gunning the throttle. Beneath him the motorcycle shot away like a missile, easily pushing a hundred and forty KPH down a pockmarked street full of rubble and debris. If the Britannians didn't kill him the crash certainly would.

Inadvertently snarling from the air whipping against his face, he kept stealing peeks around without taking his eyes off the road. Dust goggles from his helmet made doing so possible, otherwise he couldn't maintain these speeds for long. With his head protection tilting back from the wind and his rifle slapping on his back, Bindl muttered a short prayer of thanks for the ride, and asked for help one more time. Just one more thing to make the deaths of those Europeans and Marines count.

Blowing past a corner, two patrolling Britannian scout trucks tore into the street in pursuit, opening up with HMGs without hesitation. Gasping as he tried evading the fresh gunfire, Bindl happened to glance up in time while searching for escape routes, where his eyes widened. He mashed the brakes and swerved into a small lot, sliding onto his bike's side to messily skid across the pavement, and he along with it. Both trucks lurched with high pitched skids as well, a moment too slow to avoid a TSF's foot stomping into the street. One vehicle was tossed away by a kick, crashing a body's length from his struggling form.

Kicking free of the bike let Bindl see his savior: a Shiranui swinging its sword at a Knightmare by its feet, while a cannon round impacted off its nearly ruined shield. Servos groaned as it tossed the protection at an approaching IFV to crush it, gripping the enormous sword in both hands in preparation. It only covered its front, since the black giant who saved him outside the city coasted to a stop right behind the Shiranui, sword and gun in hand as it covered the opposite side. Situated in the middle of a public park, they had no cover, and no visible escape route.

More Britannians were appearing to meet them, Sutherlands and tanks coming into his sight to aim weapons at the giants. A lot of Britannians as he found, all focused on the TSFs in totality, none appearing to notice his presence. Even a tank rumbling down the street right beside his position didn't so much as swivel a coaxial machine gun at him. Breathing heavily, Bindl spared one more glance at the sword wielding TSFs awaiting their foes, and made his decision.

His eyes fell on the truck, crumpled yet still mostly intact; risky, but worth the trouble. He darted over and yanked on the handle, needing to throw his full body weight onto the door for it to give. When it creaked open a body fell out to drop onto the pavement, unmoving and leaking some blood. He grimaced but leaned inside to dig around.

"Here." he muttered triumphantly, finding an intact rocket launcher, a couple missiles, and a first aid kit tucked under the seats. He just started to withdraw when he heard a pained moan, snapping up to discover a Britannian soldier buckled in beside his prize, sans helmet; he was maybe twenty years old, had a stubble on his chin, fair hair and skin, and leaked blood from a deep gash on his forehead. What stopped Bindl from reaching for his sidearm was his expression: lips quivering, short fast breaths, and wide misty eyes unnervingly latched onto him. He was terrified.

The wise thing to do would be to shoot him. He was an enemy combatant, a volunteer seeing as Britannia didn't openly practice conscription, and moments ago he was about to kill him. Instead Bindl grabbed the kit to toss onto the boy's lap and left him behind.

Slinging the launcher beside his rifle, Bindl kicked the bike's ignition and sped off once more, giving a wide berth to the battle. Dozens of cannons going off made him flinch almost enough to crash, but he gunned the throttle and kept going, sparing just a split second glance at the engaged TSFs; the Shiranui and the black unit lunged into the fray, swinging blades, firing pylon mounted guns sparingly, even kicked and punched at the Britannians in range. Munitions by the score detonated against their hulls, but still they fought with jaw dropping ferocity, reaping scores of casualties by the second. It was a sight out of a Wagnerian opera with how grand they seemed.

In seconds he left the battle behind, though not his regret at leaving them to their fates, haunting him no matter how fast he went.

Up ahead was a clifftop, where he briefly parked to scan the early morning view; down below was Oran's port, his objective. Along with dozens of sky pointed missile batteries and a pair of large cannons placed with lots of buffer space. He coldly realized those large ones were railway guns, the kind of weapons made to hit targets across time zones, and would no doubt sink any landing force before they reached shore, as well as the ships carrying them. The otherwise picturesque sight of Fort Santa Cruz overlooking the port had a medieval church located at the summit, as well as the burning remains of a TSF resting near the front steps.

Bindl took a deep breath. "Forgive me Lord, I should've been a Priest."

Gunning the engine sprayed dirt as he shot away, heading down the hillside road at a reckless speed. Any thoughts of slowing down vanished when he spotted a couple gunships swooping towards the port, closing in on him with guns firing, tearing holes in the ground around his bike. Once he raced behind some warehouses the gunfire cut out, something that wouldn't last.

He cursed when a looming Sutherland poked around a corner to nearly clothesline him, his ducking head missing its arm by mere centimeters. No sooner did he miss that was it shooting his fleeing ride, which twisting around another building solved for a moment, until he entered open air once again. A wide range of open docks butting up to the sea greeted his eyes, promising death in the form of multiple Knightmares and trucks popping into view, a veritable horde of enemy soldiers coming out to greet him.

Nonetheless Bindl maxed out his bike's speed towards the first railway gun, twisting and weaving to evade gunfire pouring like rain. It only lessened when he got close to the battery, where its crew snatched up rifles to try to kill him. One bullet tore into his front wheel, almost throwing him head over heels from the sudden violent wobbling, cursing while trying to keep it steady just a bit further. Crying out as he twisted to the side, once again the bike skidded onto its side in a loud screech, with him holding on for dear life.

Against a concrete divider was where he crashed, thumping into the barricade with a loud clang. Snarling and gasping, he drew his sidearm and shot at the first Britannian who investigated, wrangling himself free before the rest of his pursuers caught up. Another shot hit an artilleryman ducking behind cover, and in return a bullet tore a gash across his leg, dropping him to one knee. Tears stung at his vision while he stumbled closer, yanking his rifle around to shoot bursts at any man in sight. One down, three, five, then he saw none by the battery. Just many more getting in hearing range.

Heaving for breath, he saw something else however, something that could make his mission a success. Limping to a radio station, he spared a glance over his shoulder and changed frequencies as quickly as humanly possible.

"Ah, come in! Maine, Owari! Lexington! Come in!" he yelled into a mic, ducking down when bullets struck right beside him.

Static left the radio, less so after a stray round ripped apart a speaker. _"-opy, iden-"_

Bindl hunched behind cover to clutch the mic close. "I need a strike at this position right away!"

_"...-eed- to hit, say again, Shinano-"_

"Target this transmission, don't wait!" Bindl threw the mic aside and slung the tube around, poking up to find a Sutherland closing in too close for comfort. It was also too close to completely duck around the dumb-fire missile he launched, blowing off an arm to stagger the Knightmare. Swiftly reloading from the back, he fired another to finish it off, blowing up the machine in a shower of shrapnel. Upon seeing more infantry close in he set it aside and fired off bursts from his rifle, trying to keep them back as long as possible.

Then he heard it: a faint series of booms far in the distance. Bindl dropped his weapons and ran towards the sea, stumbling and limping in an undignified sprint. Gunfire chased him, lasting seconds before shouting overtook it, merged to a faint whistle coming closer. Slamming against the railing coincided with powerful explosions rippling across the port, a split second glance confirming the other large gun was engulfed in fires, right before his old position was too. He climbed halfway over the barrier when the shockwave tossed him away, tumbling erratically to smack against the water.

Dazed as he was, Bindl didn't react to sinking as fast as he should have. Gulping a wad of seawater first, he ripped away his flak jacket and helmet as fast as he could and swam, heading for the briefly darkened sky. Saltwater stung at his numerous wounds, but at the moment he didn't care. He broke the surface and heaved, splashing as burning debris rained around him, whipping his head back and forth for any way out. Accidentally dipping below earned a curse muffled by the water, his stinging vision searching to and fro for a ladder or a ramp.

But when he happened to look further out to sea, primal instincts made him jolt away in a tiny cloud of bubbles; a colossal form approached him under the water, smoothly prowling to shore while massive tendrils folded out like a fan. He kicked and thrashed to escape its blue bulk, unable to escape a massive limb from sliding under his frantic body, pressing him against its metal hull to slowly lift him free.

Gasping yet again once he broke the surface, he hung onto the thing's arm for dear life as it rose from the sea, until his tenuous hold on the slick hull gave no matter how much he slapped and snatched. Bindl screamed for the entire fall, hitting the ground a couple seconds later to yelp. Heaving for air, he threw an arm in front of his stinging eyes at water raining down around him, while the ground below thumped from concussive impacts. Only a couple at first, then more and more, a parade of off tuned marching. Powerful groans of motors surged all around him, a droning noise that was forgotten when dozens of guns opened up, transforming the air into a withering storm of hell.

Stumbling upright, he looked towards the roiling blasts and felt his jaw drop; more giants were climbing out of the water, squat bull faced things completely unlike the more aerodynamic TSFs, thickly proportioned and bristling with weapons. He saw five sloughing off water as they stomped onto the port, unmistakably larger and more heavily armored than anything on the field, pouring fire from a half dozen guns per walker. Streaks of missiles and countless shells were flung at the incoming machines, only to detonate harmlessly off their blue hulls. Not even a tank round hitting a face of one slowed it down before they proceeded to scythe down all that stood before them, creating waves of explosions before them.

A trunk sized foot landing a mere meter from his body jolted him up to run, teetering from his bleeding leg and the ground bouncing every other second. Intermittent gunfire tracked him as he barreled towards a pier, even though a part of him recognized the shots were coming nowhere close. Still he ran, getting a safe distance from those seaborne monsters and their luckless foes, who were found wanting in the face of this new threat. Infantry, Knightmares, tanks, they died or they fled.

By a light post was where he stopped, hitting the metal to grab, steadying his quaking legs while his limbs gave out on him. Once his back hit the pole he slumped entirely, chest heaving the whole way down to the pier, all his strength leaving him entirely. He could do little now but watch the five giants march inland, spying several other clusters all along the coast.

"Those, are Intruders?" he mumbled with a grimace, feeling his entire body shudder. "Water TSFs, huh. Wonder if they built a, gah, flying version."

As if it were summoned by his words, the flying Knightmare swooped into view to the Intruder's flanks, joined by a duo of fast moving jet fighters. His guts clenched at the flyers raining munitions onto the giants, but after a moment he saw none of the Intruders be destroyed; they jerked from the impacts, they sagged from the blows, but not one was actually stopped by the barrage. All three craft banked away to escape, and in return two Intruders raised their arms and shoulder cannons to open fire, in seconds clipping the Knightmare as well as claiming a jet in a flash of an explosion.

"Serves you right." Bindl chuckled, feeling lightheaded yet very much triumphant. With a tired groan the darkness claimed him, and he fell unconscious.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Gonna give a warm thanks to Admelot, OBSERVER01, aelreth42, Andhiarasy, and TorstenL for reviewing and favoriting. I appreciate you guys, and I appreciate everyone who put a favorite and/or a follow on this story. You guys are wonderful.**

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_Gibraltar, 0500 hours..._

Two chirps came from the console, rapid beeps that called for his attention ahead of numerous other alerts. A click of a side icon answered the hail.

"_All units, Roosevelt battle group have engaged the enemy._" announced the crisp french voice, that of an EU General in a base right here in Gibraltar.

"Acknowledged Central. Third Cavalry is a go." replied the Colonel in command of the tactical armored unit, the primary force representing the French Sixth Republic in Operation Mirror Flurry. This particular regiment boasted over forty battle hardened machines, the cream of France's diminished crop of TSFs; while not the legendary Thirteenth Dragoons, it was still an indicator of how seriously the government was committed to this affair.

A moment later another chirp arrived, that of the lower rungs relaying orders. "_All squadrons report._"

"Fourth Squadron, Solar Foxes reporting." spoke thirty four year old Captain Gerard Bressette in a bored tone, relaxing in his seat as much as he was able. Scratching an itch where his fortified suit's brace rubbed on his cheek, he tuned out the remaining squadron leaders giving their confirmations. Once finished he gripped his controls once more to roll his shoulders, inhaling a deep gulp of the processed air, doing all he could not to stress his lungs more than necessary.

Minutes from heading into battle, and there wasn't a drop of sweat on his bald scalp, nor was his thin mustache bristled in the slightest. Underneath his gold and blue suit he wasn't perspiring, quivering, or tense; not even his pulse was significantly elevated from his usual. His expression was one of professional disinterest even since he stepped onto the airfield an hour ago.

Viewed from the outside his Dass-Ault Rafale, a nineteen meter tall machine of sharp angles and ivory paint, stood at attention in the poorly lit dawn like him during the briefing yesterday. Sporting assault cannons in each hand and a pair of huge sickle shaped Falcate swords on its back pylons, the pride of France was as calm as he was, especially now that it's systems were running incredibly smoothly. Since the maintenance crews were able to properly tend to the worn frame for the first time in months, its performance was boosted almost back up to factory standards. The same was true for the line of six TSFs beside his own, engines primed and their fuel and munitions fully stocked for the first time in years.

"Final checks." he commanded, listening with half an ear to his six squadron members reporting in, flicking his eyes up when the screen showed their portraits. He had trouble remembering their names; he was only transferred in to command this squadron a couple days ago, after someone in the chain of command realized he was a veteran pilot in a time when those were in short supply. None of these guys were fit to lead in his place, something that bode ill for his near future.

"_Mon captatine, is it true what rumors say about Britannia? That they're like Americans?_" asked one of his younger pilots, a worried girl by the look of her icon.

Bressette paused a moment before answering, trying to recall the quick history lesson. "They're supposed to be descended from exiled British nobility, so probably not."

"_They sound like Americans. I'd fight them over those damn Japs any day._" boasted a young blond man, or boy rather. He couldn't have been more than sixteen, maybe less depending on nutrition. Likely a post-Revolutionary conscript to bolster the army's numbers, with all that it implied; namely a head full of propaganda and less sense than food in his belly.

"_Cut it out Coty, this is an open net._" another boy cautioned.

"_Let them listen in, I don't care. I almost got killed by those bushido assholes, and now we're supposed to be all buddy with each other?" _the first, Coty apparently, scoffed dismissively. _"What're they gonna do anyway, whine? Like they did after the Chicago raid?_"

Bressette flicked on his comm while leaning forward. "I heard about that. A French army unit attacked a civilian borough during the attack, no?"

"_That was it._" Coty agreed, his image smiling when his five comrades leered uneasily at the same time. He apparently hadn't noticed his voice going dangerously cold.

"What happened there will not occur here, understood?" he commanded in a blasé tone, eyes narrowed at him.

"_Damn right it won't. Those Canadian babies aren't here to bug out the moment some idiot even looks in their-_"

"Listen to me very carefully, lieutenant." Bressette interrupted, succeeding in making the boy's mouth clamp shut. "You attack a civilian target during this operation, I will pluck off your limbs like a fly's wings. Do you understand me?"

"_Ah, y-yes sir. I a-apologize sir._" Coty gulped.

"Do not be sorry, be better. We are soldiers of the Republic, not barbarians. That goes for all of you." Bressette stated flatly, hearing a round of nervous affirmations. The moment his comms switched off he had to cough into a fist.

Minutes later the last of the checks were completed, and the order was given at last. "_Commence operation._"

Jump units flared to life, starting in pairs before spreading like wildfire, crossing lines of units across this entire base. Turning from orange to blue, his own jets swiftly brought his TSF to a hover, the first of seven to rise from the tarmac. A tilt of his controls propelled the sharp machine forward, cruising ahead ponderously slowly compared to how swift it could really go. His squadron wasn't as graceful as he was, but they kept from colliding with anything at their low altitude at least. Once he was a couple dozen meters up he shot towards the ocean like a ballistic missile, cruising right above the hangar roofs to open water. Just one of many TSFs rising from the Spanish landscape to greet the enemy.

Their enemy corrected Bressette, a split second flinch interrupting his game face. The Britannian army he was minutes away from engaging was no foe of his. The opponent of this place's European Union, of the government and their new American and Japanese allies (that fact still rankled him, throwing their lot in with those bastards so soon after a humiliating peace treaty), and many others wronged by that Empire, but not an enemy of him personally. But the decision wasn't his. Running to this world, abandoning a homeland he would never see again, parting with the graves of long gone friends, all they fought for over decades was tossed away. He had no say in any of it.

He inhaled again before hitting his comms.

"Stay low, follow me at a three hundred meter gap. Watch for AA." he ordered, keeping his Rafale's feet barely five meters above the crashing waves. Sparing a sour look downwards, he vowed to make a home as far inland as possible once this was over. Nevertheless he let out a quiet sigh of relief now that things were underway.

Bressette was in his element now. Away from harping politics, away from a million important tasks because there was no one else to do them (worse so than the days of the Fifth Republic), the salt storms, hanging around with those damn yankees and Japs, all gone. In the cockpit of his Rafale, there was only him and the mission. This clarity of existence was perhaps the only thing he would miss after leaving the military.

Meanwhile his radar was going absolutely wild; just in his downscaled range there were dozens of TSFs, their IFFs labeling them as French army. But expanding the edges a little revealed a host of other contacts, each one given only a marker instead of an ID, details of which the briefing supplied thoroughly. It was entirely possible for him to increase his range for an even wider view of the invasion, but he refrained from spamming the airwaves for now. The darkened Moroccan coastline loomed ahead, closing fast due to his high speed. But there was enough time to glance to the side, letting him see the awe inspiring sight of dozens, if not hundreds of TSFs racing towards the same destination, a veritable storm of machines highlighted on the predawn sea.

"_What the? That's a tiny bomber._" one of his troops exclaimed, right after his radar picked up several contacts rapidly catching up to his squadron. Bressette grunted when a wave of turbulence rocked his Rafale, spotting an arrow shaped plane zip past his TSF without slowing down, outracing him trivially easily. Three more followed in its wake, showing glowing engines racing towards the shoreline.

"Those aren't bombers, they're jet fighters." he corrected over the channel.

"_Jet fighter? Like, a plane meant to fight other planes?_" another inquired with disbelief.

"Like what we used to fly before the BETA. Now focus." Bressette ordered. Overhead streaks of artillery and missiles rained from the coast they departed from, far too little for expected resistance. Still, he appreciated every bit of firepower to thin out the-

He stopped that thought. This wasn't a culling mission; beyond the coast was a conflict between men, not the abominations that stole everything from him. His experience from operating on the Suez Defense Line or the JFK Hive infiltration had little bearing here, he needed to quit relying on his anti-BETA knowledge and draw upon the Border War lessons, though even those could fail him.

Shaking his head, he fixed his gaze on the approaching coast. Up ahead was the settlement of Martil, a town by a sandy beach that looked to be of a respectable size, although the lack of any building lighting was unsettling in its own way. This was a stepping stone to further targets inland, and a convenient spot for amphibious ships to beach themselves; he wondered if locals were still living there under enemy occupation. If there were any, they were about to have a bad morning.

Ten kilometers out was where the Britannians answered their assault, beginning with a barrage of missiles from darkened platforms dotting the townscape. Guided missiles Bressette unhappily observed, jerking around mid flight to head towards the incoming TSFs; five or six homed in on his squadron, leaving behind faint trails during their rapid transit. Beeping alerts flashed on his console, insistently warning him of an unfriendly radar lock, quite obviously in his opinion. It was a different warble than a Laser warning, something that made him unclench his guts a tiny degree.

"Break formation, keep to NOE." he ordered, spying their icons veering away with satisfaction. All but one, who idiotically gained altitude when they should've gone lower. "Solar Two, get your ass down."

_"I have three radar locks, I can't shake them!_" yelled the cautious boy from earlier, his young voice laced by fear. Meanwhile his Rafale ascended higher and higher while it zigzagged randomly, heading towards the sky as several missiles changed course.

"Pop your smokes and drop! That's an order!" Bressette snarled.

Twin streams of gunfire sprayed from his squadron towards the missiles; three detonated in midair with bright explosions, but the fourth was unscathed by the time it reached him, hitting the TSF to go up in flames. Bressette tracked the fiery cloud for a couple seconds longer than necessary, and after a moment his patience was rewarded by the boy's machine emerging from the roiling smog, scarred yet intact.

"_Avi!_" a girl yelled with audible relief.

"_I, I..._" the mangled Rafale was descending slowly, raining armor components and trailing smoke in its wake.

Bressette clicked his tongue. "Solar Two, return to base. If you can't make it eject and set your locator beacon. Do you read me?"

"_Ah, y-yes sir. I'm hurt-_"

"RTB Two." Bressette growled, taking his eyes off the Rafale when it lazily banked away. "The rest of you, we continue forward. Avoid the skies, you won't be as fortunate." he commanded, hearing their nervous affirmations.

More fire picked up once they flew over the beaches, meeting smaller missile batteries and flak cannons pounding away at the aerial force. He cruised over the ground to the resort town, destroying guns as he found them, but otherwise not slowing to get bogged down. Overhead EU fighter planes dueled with their Britannian counterparts, but there weren't enough to keep several enemy jets from breaking off to swoop towards them; he grimaced at seeing a nearby Mirage 2000 get swatted out of the sky by a missile volley, a fireball announcing that pilot's demise. One locked onto him, and for that he flipped his machine to shoot at the closing missile, destroying it and hitting the fighter who got too close. Seeing it's dark form blowing up earned an unhappy grunt.

His troops meanwhile rained ordnance down below, swooping and twisting to avoid streaks of high powered shells, as did most of the TSFs who didn't just blaze past the obstacle. Remarkably, there were fewer losses so far than he expected there to be. Anti-Laser tactics were proving to be a significant help against ground based fire.

"Scatter, two hundred meter spread. Five and Three, hang back at my six. Four, Six, Seven, break off to the left flank. Maintain ten meter altitude. For god's sake check your targets before you fire." he ordered upon seeing a battery flinging shells at the TSFs, some coming very close to his position.

Darting over a rocky hill outside Martil, Bressette saw the enemy in the flesh, or steel rather. A line of machines prowled into a bombed out subdivision, three IFVs being escorted by four blue mechs, appearing tiny even disregarding his altitude. Probably reinforcements for the local garrison. He glanced to the adjacent streets and made his decision.

"Three and Five, cover me. Take out anything I miss." His Rafale dropped the remaining distance to the ground, hitting its boosters once he was at rooftop level.

Bressette shot towards the Britannians, weaving from side to side to dodge their scattered fire, distantly noting both automatic weapons and slower firing cannons, either rocket propelled shells or lower velocity rounds. The difference was irrelevant really, both would kill him. One twenty sabots blew up the lead mech and the last IFV, throwing both machines back while they were incinerated. For good measure he sprayed thirty six AP in bursts, swinging his arms out to nail any other targets in nearby streets, all while bringing his TSF's feet up as if to land. Bullets pinged off his armored frame even with as erratically as he was moving, earning a grimace.

Still, he was in a solid enough condition to slam his Rafale's feet down on a skidding tear right towards the convoy, bending his knees to minimize his profile. One so called Knightmare had the reaction speed to get out of the way, the rest weren't as lucky. While his cockpit rattled he tore through their unit with impunity, his hardened leg armor acting like a battering ram, while his arm blades sliced apart any foe unlucky enough to be in the way. Once he threw aside IFVs and Knightmares like toys he boosted again to head towards the nearby city of Tétouan.

Along the way, Bressette performed a risky move: flinging one sword ahead to sail through the air, letting him clamp his assault cannon on the freed pylon in time to snatch his blade's hilt before it crashed. Such an act needed very precise timing, but he didn't have time to swap weapons the slow way, and since the Day he abandoned old habits such as discarding spent rifles. Nonetheless he grunted in satisfaction, feeling a burst chip off his shoulder armor, but at the same time he twirled his Falcate around; updated from antiquity to defeat Grappler Class BETA, it would serve him well in close quarters.

"_Solar One, eyes on a tank company heading your way._" a young pilot warned. He needed a couple seconds to mentally translate that phrase to something more useful.

"Acknowledged." the Rafale whipped to the side, swerving in a sharp left turn. Glowing fireflies flew past where he was a moment ago, much too close for comfort. "Solar, take them out and regroup on me."

"_We got it frenchies._" went a synthesized voice. Bressette glanced in the mirror camera to discover a trio of tanks and their escorts aiming weapons at him, only to get slammed by a shell and multiple bursts of recognizable AP rounds; his brow lifted at seeing a trio of blocky dented MiG-21s in green paint come in to land by their wrecks, weapons blazing at stragglers in their midsts. The lead TSF drew a heavy sword from its back, looking like a Chinese style Dadao UFC forces used, and swung it at some out of sight targets.

"Thanks for the save." Bressette said over the comm, spying his squadron closing in, showing some new scars on their frames.

"_Compliments of the Unified Korean Army Contingent, can't let the yanks claim we're not pulling our weight. We'll mop up these guys, but there's a division coming in from that way._" said the leader as she chopped a Knightmare in half with one swing. "_Get over here you little pricks!_"

"Copy that, good luck." With his squadron overhead, Bressette hit his afterburners and shot away.

Scattered hostiles crossed his route, each hostile unit heading in disparate directions. IFVs, tanks, Knightmares, even infantry squads, all went in different ways to or away from TSFs crisscrossing the area above them. Canadian Tornadoes, American Eagles, Japanese Shiranuis, and now French Rafales, they flitted across the landscape to rain fire upon the enemy, remarkably few going down by his old standards. Bressette took potshots at enemies when the opportunity presented itself, but he kept heading towards Tétouan with his squadron in a makeshift formation, barking orders to keep them from breaking off. Along the way he eyed his gauges; he was doing alright on ammunition, but his fuel was inexorably dropping, and without a local supply base he would have to bug out or risk being stranded.

His radio was going off the whole time, english and japanese being overlaid by translated french alongside the genuine article. He paid half a mind to it, only lingering when a Canadian accented speaker piped up. "_This is Lancer Flight, airfield secure. We have eyes on friendly troopships landing on the beaches, say again, friendly transports are on the beach._"

Overtaking a quartet of bulky TSFs, he did a double take at their armored forms and slowed down, sending a ping to the squadron to join him. This wasn't part of his battle plan, but the machines he now escorted needed the backup. Not to mention he wanted their help just as much.

"This is Solar Foxes squadron, care to join us?" Bressette sent over the comm.

"_If you insist Solar. Kanonendoktors are ready to tear these scheissekopfs a new asshole._" answered a translated voice, the four heavy machines bringing their weapons to bear.

Upon spying a Knightmare company closing in, Bressette wisely banked away to give the allied unit a clear line of fire. "Have fun krauts."

"_Go to hell frogs._" the german laughed, engines flaring for their landing behind a short hill. They needed just seconds to align targeting systems on their victims.

Eight hundred meters from the Britannians, the four Bundeswehr Thunderbolts let loose. Pairs of seven barreled GAU-8 Avengers from each A-10 poured an unholy barrage at the Knightmares with unrestrained fury, a whirlwind of firepower matching entire squadrons in volume, creating a monotonous drone that warmed his heart. Massive shoulder mounted drums fed the hungry weapons, their spinning barrels glowing red hot as they reaped a vicious toll on their targets. The Knightmares only got off a few shots themselves before they were swamped, the leading elements shredded in the blink of an eye.

Clouds of dust rose from the target location, engulfing the unfortunate enemies in seconds, save only for a few outliers who barely escaped. Those were the targets of his marksmanship, tight bursts dropping one fleeing machine after another. But even the ones he didn't kill found no easy prey; several cape wearing Knightmares used the diversion to sneak around their hill, and subsequently one was torn apart by a GAU-8 swiveling behind its owner, moments before another two were gunned down by his Rafales. The last tried shooting the A-10s to no real effect while closing the distance in an erratic high speed path, narrowly dodging their fire, all to swing a sword at one giant's leg. A few meters from its hull several huge spikes launched from the armor to spear the offender, causing it to explode. Bressette was impressed to see the rumored javelin defense system in action, even against suboptimal targets.

Once the main force was dealt with, the primary detail that made European TSFs more lethal than their foreign counterparts took aim. In each A-10's grips huge cannons known as the MK-57 platform, a fusion of an infantryman's GPMG and artillery gun, established firing angles upon distant enemies, and boomed their hellish cacophony across the battlefield. Such was their power that even their impromptu Rafale escort was unbalanced from the displaced air. A paltry cost to seeing shells arc over the area at several shots per minute, smacking distant enemy positions on the edges of his sight range, missing the low hanging city on the hills by a narrow margin. Blooming explosions arose from the impact points, cutting of bundles of radar signatures from every salvo.

Making sure his comm line was off, he groaned in his cockpit. "Screw the defense ministry."

American made or not, he thought the A-10 was a fearsome machine, one that could tear gaping holes in BETA hordes when his old Mirage 2000 would have to flee. To say nothing of the MK-57, offering vast firepower without relying on supporting units who were at risk of being ambushed, especially during culling missions across the Suez or on the mainland. Not for the first time he cursed his government for refusing to grab any of those before the Day, clinging to their brain dead separatism even after their homeland was consumed.

Coming down again to pick off anything left standing, Bressette took a breath and suddenly coughed, inadvertently sparing an incoming purple Knightmare from being destroyed. Rattling hacking shook his body, needing him to grip his face to steady himself, giving way to shuddering unsteady gasps. Squeezing his eyes shut a moment, he blearily gazed at his gloved hand to groan quietly.

"Merde." he muttered to the blood flecks, then felt his Rafale unexpectedly jerk forward. Snarling to himself, he found that his target had him speared by a pair of harpoon cables, and was trying to shove a huge lance at his legs. He swung a foot out of the way just in time, only for it to yank him down further, retracting the lines to scale up his TSF even as he staggered his machine away. No doubt it planned on poking his cockpit with that stick.

Bressette wasn't sure if the pilot was courageously stupid or stupidly courageous, the difference between them was a rather fine one. Tugging his gun arm up had his forearm blade slice through the lines, dropping the Knightmare to the ground. A heartbeat after it crashed he slung his Falcate to skewer the fool.

_"Capatine!" _yelled one of his troops.

"I'm fine, let's go." Bressette hit his boosters to take flight. "You're on your own from here krauts."

"_We're in a good spot frogs, good luck._" the lead A-10 lowered her weapon to give a stiff salute, while the Avengers swiveled to rip apart a few stragglers.

Up ahead was the target, along with a rather sizable enemy force leaving Tétouan in several thrusts, throwing munitions skywards like it was going out of style. Bressette picked out gunships (a lot of them, VTOL types instead of rotorcraft like he was used to) hugging the army closely, forming clumps of units in the place of a uniform formation, likely because of the indirect fire from MK-57s raining down on them. Overhead more fighter planes clashed with the Britannian air forces, leaving bombers free to deliver their payloads with only diminishing ground based guns to worry about. At his altitude TSFs danced around the Britannian flanks, tearing into the enemy without getting too close; he spotted a flight of grey F-16s nearby trading fire on the move, one of them catching a shell that knocked it aside, long enough for a concentrated barrage to shred the luckless pilot.

Nevertheless Bressette decided they had the right idea. "Skirt the edges, don't close in yet."

"_Roger_." went a chorus, before one pilot cleared her throat. "_Solar One, there's a general broadcast from the enemy army. It's on a lot of frequencies._"

"What's it say?" he questioned, lobbing a couple one twenty shells as a makeshift mortar; it was unlikely to hit anything, but until he was closer that would have to do.

"_It's in english sir._"

Sighing, Bressette flicked his comms until a nasally voice filled his cockpit, an older man speaking in a friendly tone. Immediately he turned the volume down, not liking the speaker already.

"-_Lord Tarrant, I am speaking on an open channel to all American forces who can hear me. I am not your enemy. Britannia and America need not fight, we are of the same blood, the same home. There is no division between our peoples. The foreign powers you were tricked into aligning with care nothing for you, they seek only to use you for the sake of your own prosperity._"

Bressette fired off bursts into the enemy flank once he was close enough, boosting away fast as shells rained by his position, a couple shots hitting regardless. Much to his ire the guns weren't loud enough to drown out that man's voice.

"_Even now, they let your friends to the east be slaughtered in place of their cowardly soldiers. Your people are dying for uncaring tyrants. I do not demand you turn your weapons on your allies, nothing so pointlessly cruel. All I ask is that you leave this area and no animosity will be raised. You can come home to-"_

_"Jesus, do you ever shut up?"_ snapped another english speaker over the channel. Raising a brow, Bressette spied a squadron of grey F-15s cresting a hill on a straight path towards the enemy; remarkably, the six Eagles weren't fired on on their approach, unlike every other TSF on the field. Guns in the immediate area fell silent as the Americans slowed to land atop a short hill, training weapons on the Britannians.

_"To whom am I addressing?"_

_"Captain Reeve, of the One Nineteenth Tactical Armored Battalion, what's left of the Federalized Michigan National Guard."_ the American barked in response.

"_What a coincidence, I too hail from the Michigan province. The city of Detroit to be specific. It is a beautiful land, especially by Lake Huron._" the Britannian replied jovially. "_What say you Captain Reeve? Do you wish to go home?_"

"_Damn right I do. So do all my boys, they're just post-Day conscripts. No business with this crap._"

Bressette trained his pylon gun on the Eagles, prepared to fire before they did. His features twisted into a poorly restrained scowl. "Traitorous bas-"

"_But Michigan I came from is gone, because of the salt storms it's dying now. Your place isn't my home any more than Europe is. But by god, I'm gonna make it one._" he snarled, as every single Eagle raised weapons. "_You sonsofbitches are gonna regret sticking your noses where it doesn't belong. Wendigo squadron, hard knocks!_"

"_Ready to rock!_" the Americans bellowed, simultaneously blasting away at the nearest Britannian forces, charging into the fray even as TSF after TSF went down in flames. His radio screamed with an older english speaker, bellowing for the squadron to break off; not one listened.

At the sight of such reckless stupidity, Bressette shrugged. "Solar squadron, move in for close quarters. We're not letting those idiot yanks show us up."

"_Yes sir!_" they yelled, following on his heels as his Rafale led the charge, swinging the Falcate down on the nearest Britannians. Such a waste of life, but he had his duty.

* * *

Taking deep breaths, Marimo steadied her frayed nerves as best as she could. The air in her cockpit was getting stuffy, the fuel meter was getting too low for comfort, and her ammo had reached critical levels. She hadn't heard from her handpicked unit for several minutes now, for all she knew they were shot down, begging for her help while she was stuck here. Help that she couldn't give without ensuring her own demise. And yet she stood firm.

Marimo grounded her pockmarked Shiranui in an open space between low rise apartments, likely a public park based on the greenery in sight, plants and stubby trees planted between geometric walkways spanning the location. Those which weren't burned away, flattened by uncaring treads, or crushed underfoot by her TSF's feet thudding against the soil. For a split second she regretted destroying the foliage; she never realized how much she missed plant life until after the Day, even after her harrowing stint in China all those years ago. These people had no idea how precious it all was.

And right now, she had no time to care about plants.

Marimo brought her Shiranui's sword into a two handed grip. This was her second blade, the first took a lucky shot from a jet plane that spared her at the cost of a backup weapon, and now that she tossed her perforated shield at an enemy IFV, there was nothing left between her hull and them. With her extra protection gone and her gun down to its last magazine, her options were to flee or engage these thugs in hand to hand. Based on the way their armored vehicles and mini-TSFs (Knightmares she mentally corrected) surrounded her while holding fire, they felt confident about their odds. The fact she already carved up several of their brethren made them cautious but not afraid.

Then again, their wariness may have been because of the second TSF thumping onto the ground at her rear. A black and orange machine shaped similarly to her Shiranui, but it was sleeker, sharper, far more elegant than her own chariot, and showing some carbon scoring instead of her numerous bullet holes. It too drew a sword to hold by its side, while the other hand pointed its assault cannon at the dirt, warily scanning its crested head over the enemy circling them. AAA guns were so close by, what they needed to destroy in order to salvage this mess of an operation. But instead of escaping with its legendary agility, the Type-00C Takemikazuchi stayed put to join her.

Marimo opened a channel, keeping a cold tone to her voice. "Horn Three, I don't need the support. The nearest objective is that way. Hit it so we can get out of here."

"_I'm not leaving you._"

"You did before." Marimo reminded, grimacing at several armored vehicles moving into position; they were going to be a pain to deal with. "Last I checked you grew out of that stupidity. What changed?"

"_Regret_."

She scoffed at the flat tone. "Drop the stoic facade, it makes you sound ridiculous."

Catching her eye was a blue Super Hornet some distance away, swooping over a building with a swarm of gunships following on its heels, spraying bullets behind it that took one aircraft down but didn't scare off the rest. In return a streaking missile blew off an arm to leave behind a flaming stump of a limb. They were too distant to help even without their own problems, and in seconds it vanished from sight.

"_Yuuhi asked me to watch over you._"

"Did she now." Marimo nodded, twisting her features into a scowl. "Funny how that works huh? That watch didn't extend to siding with Sukerokurou, letting Seattle starve while I was thrown in prison? Definitely didn't stop the brass from volunteering me to scout this place, regardless of whether or not I'd come back."

"_I didn't have a choice._"

Despite the risk of setting off their foes, Marimo twisted her Shiranui around to lay eyes on the Type-00, and the Imperial Royal Guard pilot within. To the man underneath that opulent armor, she spared only a contemptuous glare.

"You're a liar, Takeru."

Her comm chirped, indicating a foreign transmission attempting to hail her Shiranui. A waste of time she knew, but still Marimo hit the line, sighing to herself in preparation of listening to English. Flipping on her translator was always an option of course, but she wanted to be sure she didn't miss any subtleties they may give; outwardly all the languages here were similar enough to their own that it wasn't an issue, but just in case she was careful. Not to mention she went through too much effort to gain fluency to throw it away.

"_Pilots of those giant Knightmares, I am Baron Marquee, vassal to Lord Kruger of the Louisiana province. In the name of his Majesty, I hereby order you to lower your weapons and surrender. I swear on my title that you will be treated as legal prisoners of war under the full protection of the law._" Marimo noted it was a female officer, sounding to be in her twenties or thirties. Appraising her age was a little difficult thanks to a level of sheer arrogance that the Royal Guard could admire.

But she could guess where she was located; she spied an angular purple Knightmare armed with a javelin, flanked by a quartet of rifle equipped escorts behind a tank. Marimo was certain the blue types were called Sutherlands or something, but the leader's designation escaped her at the moment.

"_This is your first and only warning._" the officer proclaimed.

Honor demanded that Marimo turn on the line to tell that woman where she could shove it. After everything she suffered both at home and here, fighting for her life this morning, and losing track of her flight mates, she was out of patience to deal with such snobbery. For a moment she considered aping the Royal Guard by opening a channel to insult them, boasting of her identity while mocking their silly attitudes. High class verbal sparring like feudal era samurai sounded like a fun boost to her awful week.

But knowing that they subjugated her nation; turning Japan into a colony, treating its inhabitants as subhuman trash, raping its lands, she decided on a different course of action.

The Shiranui leapt forward, shaking the ground from its heavy footfalls as her jump units flared, launching her towards that purple machine. Shells boomed all around her location, rocking her TSF from countless impacts slamming into her hull. Warning alerts flashed on her screen to elicit a snarl. All Marimo cared about this second was reaching that so called Baron, who reversed as the escort Knightmares raised weapons to fire. Their bullets punched holes in her frame, the super carbon armor unable to withstand such withering punishment for long. Under her breath she prayed for it to hold out for just a few moments longer.

A wide slash bisected the vehicles and one of the bodyguards, her pylon rifle opening up to keep the screening troops from interfering just yet. Another rending blow destroyed two more of the Knightmares, with her target and the remaining unit firing harpoons cables that entangled her leg; if not for her jump units her Shiranui would trip. But her other limb was unbothered by that obstacle, leaving it free to rise up into the air to align with the leader, who's attempt to cripple the giant served to keep her from evading. The line was still open the whole time.

"_You filthy Eleve-_" was the last thing she screamed before Marimo brought her foot down on the Knightmare. For just a moment her greater weight crumpled its angular armor like a discarded can, and then whatever powered that machine detonated as a powerful bomb.

Her Shiranui wavered from having its foot mangled, unbalanced even as her jump units furiously tried to stabilize her. More gunfire tore into the exposed TSF, cutting out one vital system after another, slowly yet inexorably bringing her down. She cursed repeatedly her cramped cockpit, shooting at whatever foes were in sight, waving her sword to ward off any other melee focused hostile in the area. Marimo snarled, baring her teeth as she yanked on her controls.

"I am not! Dying! Here!" she roared, boosting towards a nearby tank to her sword down, cleaving off its barrel and wedging the blade in the turret.

Marimo was done. Done with the fighting, done with always worrying, fearing this day to be her last. She had been a soldier her entire adult life, and she was finished with it all; risking herself, watching young women and men march off to their graves, their bright futures cut short so infuriatingly easily. After all that had happened: losing everyone she cared for, the end of the world, discovering a whole new realm, all she wanted now was to keep from dying in some random park.

As she gasped and snarled, the Type-00 tore into the Britannians like its wrathful namesake; blade sweeping, sharp fingers impaling, gun chattering, the Takemikazuchi dodged and weaved with skill she never saw in anyone before, and doubted she would ever see again. It even managed to evade a tank cannon firing at nearly point blank, then it proceeded to shove the sword's point through the turret's roof. No sooner did it go up in a powerful explosion was the TSF off again, sans blade. Not that the disarmament helped the enemy much, especially when one tried to hit the giant with a cable trap, only to have its harpoons caught on a swinging leg that yanked it into a building.

Marimo abruptly ceased shooting, flashing warnings announcing the obvious. With a snarl she snatched the gun to fling at another Knightmare, who unexpectedly ducked out of the way of the careening weapon, leaving it exposed to be carved open by her sword. A flashing warning indicated there was a major structural fault detected in the blade, something that made her curse.

"Great timing." she muttered, spying another gunship swooping into view.

Her radio unexpectedly went off, startling her in a jolt. "_This is Hammer One to all forces, we've made landfall. Bringing the hurt now._"

A round of hurried acknowledgments followed, coinciding with the hostiles she was engaging to unexpectedly start reversing, pulling out in a fighting retreat. Marimo had to throw a hand on a building facing to steady her Shiranui from a stumble, accidentally caving in a roof in doing so. With her machine's foot ruined and her ammunition depleted, pursuing them wasn't an option; that she left to the Takemikazuchi blowing past her to crush a Knightmare underfoot, blade swinging and gun blazing at anything that dared attack it.

She almost swung her sword again when her radar beeped, just catching herself upon finding a friendly icon. Gazing sideways, she discovered a Super Hornet coming down from an ungainly glide by her side, the friendly TSF coming perilously close to tottering over once it stopped moving. But it didn't, and the Marine TSF still had several guns to jab upwards to cover them, two pylon weapons and a single arm; the other was a jagged stump of broken armor. In addition one of the jump units was missing, the other was belching smoke at a high rate.

"_Wardog One, do you copy?_" demanded a familiar voice, that of her American supporter.

"I'll live Knife One. You should go cover someone else." Marimo ordered, spying explosions coming from the port, along with the recognizable forms of lumbering Intruders looming over the rooftops. Her radar beeped again, making her peer up to find jet contrails coming into view.

"_You need it more than them at the moment Wardog._" Kjellberg replied easily, her damaged Super Hornet shrugging. "_Besides, I'm too banged up to move. Bastards shot out my engines._"

Marimo rolled her eyes. "Suit yourself. By the way, hostile three'oh'clock."

Twin one twenty shells sailed from Kjellberg's weapons, hitting an APC across an intersection, heading in the opposite direction of the port. Its comrades, including armor and more Knightmares (these people had a lot of them she thought), barely had time to turn towards the TSFs before glowing fireflies raked their positions from down the street. Overhead she spied more contrails of jet fighters coming in from the east, pursuing several fleeing enemy planes.

She was sure one was that red and gold thing who nearly killed her youngest flight mate. But even if she was at a hundred percent, there was no way she'd catch it in time. Instead she settled on a cold glare.

_"Talk about a waste of lives. Another group of Marines I have to bury in some godforsaken land." _Kjellberg muttered, punctuating the statement by sending a few bursts at some sluggish units trying to run.

"Least those Euros didn't leave us in the lurch." Marimo replied tiredly. She made sure her radio was off before she continued to herself. "Or they didn't end up going through with it anyway."

It wasn't over by a long shot she knew. But when she saw a parade of EU vehicles enter her view twenty minutes later, she decided that while the fight wasn't finished, her role in things were. This war no longer needed her.

But when her radio went off, she remembered that others did. "_Wardog One, come in! Respond!_"

* * *

Not far away from Marimo's position, four Shiranuis dove and swept through high rises of an affluent district right next to the docks, trying desperately to keep from being destroyed. Jump units flared while guns blazed, interspersed with the sharp twang of swords reaping their toll. Not one was undamaged by collisions in this tight battlefield, or not scarred by damage ranging from tiny dents caused by rifle fire, to gaping holes of large ordnance.

"Wardog One, come in! Respond!" snarled Tatsunami Hibiki, acting callsign Wardog Two, as he ducked his Shiranui around a corner seconds before a tank shell threw debris at his unit's head. Gritting his teeth, the young leader of Wardog Flight (when its former superior didn't take command) switched between his comrades and the enemy closing in, marking where both were. His short stature made keeping steady in his cockpit harder than it needed to be.

Although he would never admit it, again and again he found himself hesitating to pull the trigger; in spite of the monstrous tales he heard about these Britannians, they were still people. Just like him, his friends, the Canadians and French he met after the NUN's founding. Everything that he went through since the Day, from crossing a ravaged America on foot to the JFK Hive operation, each trial and hardship, it all led to yet another war. Here he was in some foreign land fighting humans, as if everything that had happened meant zilch. It was utter madness.

"_Watch it Two!_" yelled Sendou Yuzuka, callisign Wardog Three, a friendly and passionate girl with a heart of gold (so she claimed, when she wasn't clutching an axe), blasted her own Shiranui past him to sweep her blade, catching a pair of smaller Knightmares before they could hit. No doubt she was grinning in her cockpit, her long tied up hair swinging with the momentum.

As she did so however, her pylon rifles jerked over to spray down an adjacent street covered by a third TSF, lending her fire to that one's angle. Four shots from their one twenties hit a tank simultaneously, turning it into a fireball.

Her ally dove back to slam her machine onto a building, moving her jump units out of the way as she reloaded her guns. "_Thanks Three._"

"Four, ammo count?" Hibiki demanded, taking potshots alongside a fourth Shiranui diving for cover beside him.

"_Last mag, three shells Two._" replied the heavily accented voice of Wardog Four, Ellen Aice. Tall, blonde, and caucasian, she was nevertheless a full member of the IJA, although she never did share the tale of how she managed that with them. And as a former Orbital Diver, she brought valuable experience to the unit in a time when training quality was sketchy at best.

"_I have a spare mag Four, I can-gah!_" without warning a teeth rattling explosion detonated from the back of the last Shiranui, belonging to Wardog Five. Flames enveloped the machine's back to send her sprawling to the pavement.

The blood drained from Hibiki's expression, twisting into a fearful snarl. "Shizuku!"

He didn't need to say anything. Abandoning their positions, Yuzuka and Aice boosted to Miono Shizuku's fallen machine by the time it collapse, guns chattering at a cannon armed Knightmare jumping off a nearby short building, evading their fire. Cursing in anger, Hibiki felt a burst chip off his leg, and swept his spare rifle where the shots were coming from.

"Wardog Five, respond!" he demanded in terror, not loosening up in the slightest when he heard a plaintive groan.

"_Gah, I'm okay, ah. Powers gone, I c-can't move._" Shizuku replied weakly as her flight mates covered her. Though she was older than she looked, in many ways his youngest comrade was too young for this.

"Sit tight, we'll..." Hibiki snapped over when a nearby building collapsed in a cascade of debris, relaxing his tight grip a tiny amount at seeing the huge Intruder stomping through its remains. Its guns roared at nearby targets, while its enormous frame scrapped off the cramped buildings to rain debris down below.

"_This is Hammer Nine. Shiranuis, IDs?_" the Marine inside demanded across his rapid translator.

"Acting leader Wardog Two, Hammer Nine." Hibiki sent another burst down the narrow streets, causing several Knightmares to dive for cover. "We have a man down, requesting your assistance."

Just as he spoke a TSF raced overhead, a jaggedly designed machine in blue splotched paint quite unlike the Shiranui or Super Hornets of this mission; he had to ask what it was during the briefing, discovering it was a Soviet Remnant Su-33, one of the last of its kind. At the moment it was trailing smoke as the pilot attempted to take cover on a squat skyscraper, only to get slammed by several missiles from a gunship swooping on an attack run, sending the TSF careening to the ground nearby their position. He watched helplessly as it crashed no more than two hundred meters away. Spotting its killer eat a burst from a fighter jet was no consolation, especially when more Knightmares appeared from adjacent streets.

"_Wait, I got a locator beacon! They're still alive!_" Aice suddenly barked.

Hibiki grimaced. "Copy, I'll handle this-"

"_I got your back._" Yuzuka stepped in immediately, moving her machine to his flank.

Aice bent over to snatch up a spare magazine from the fallen Shiranui, adding it to her ammo compartment. "_Ready to move Two._"

"_I'll cover your man Wardog Two, you drag that Ruskie over here._" barked the Marine, stomping his Intruder over Shizuku's TSF with his guns swiveling.

Hibiki nodded with a breath. "Thank you."

"_No more people left behind. Now go!_"

Cramped urban areas made for poor maneuvering on his part, but still Hibiki made it to the Soviet TSF in record time, slamming the pavement beside them as the downed machine struggled to stand upright. He brought his gun up for suppressive fire, as did Yuzuka at his flank, leaving Aice to grab the Su-33 by the shoulder to start dragging it away, its armor screeching on the pavement even though his cockpit. Spying multiple gunships zipping between buildings, he opened a channel.

"Soviet pilot, what's your status?" he demanded, shooting bursts at the craft to preserve his ammo. In seconds he was rewarded by a gunship exploding; one down, potentially hundreds to go. He had to walk backwards rather than use his jump units, unwilling to expose himself more than necessary.

A loud gasp proceeded a curse, a click announcing the translator's activation. "_This is Potemkin One, ah, I don't need-_"

"_Looks like your legs are kaput Potemkin._" Aice interjected, her own machine groaning from the workload. An untranslated yet irate curse met her.

"_Damn you American lapdogs. If you're gonna help, bozemoi that-ah, find my squadron._" she snarled.

"It'll be okay." he alternated with Yuzuka, keeping the gunships at bay. Unfortunately a great number of smaller Knightmares were closing in from side streets, necessitating them turning to shoot at the speedy little machines. "I'm Lieutenant Tatsunami Hibiki, you?"

"_Go to hell._" she yelped when Aice poked up to offer covering fire as well, jerking back when a shell hit her shoulder. "_Fine, Captain Anna Mel'nikova. Now we're all buddy buddy you absolute id-_"

Without warning the radio crackled on, the english voice making Hibiki tense. "_This is Lord Patterson to any Britannian soldiers who can hear me. As acting commander of all forces in this sector, I am hereby announcing a general retreat from Oran. I say again, we are retreating from Oran._"

"_Oh hey, all channels._" Yuzuka noted, finally stopping with the rest of them, while Aice laid the fallen Su-33 next to Shizuku, all under the watch of the Marine's Intruder. With all three Shiranui's forming a perimeter, they braced for an incoming attack.

Several Knightmares blasted past them, but none engaged the mixed group. Hibiki tensed, unwilling to believe it just yet; battles had never ended this quickly before, it hadn't even been more than ninety minutes as he found out by peeking at his onboard clock.

"_Why are they…?"_ Aice left hanging.

"_They were running from my squadron the whole way here._" the Marine added, his Intruder's limbs swiveling to track them.

Shizuku gasped weakly. "_Did we win?_"

Hibiki was about to answer, but his radar interrupted him before he could speak. Gazing upwards, he spotted that custom Knightmare who nearly blew Shizuku out of the sky earlier, zipping away from their position with all haste.

"I think so. Here at least." he murmured.

"_Terrific. Now someone contact Potemkin squadron for me, I'm not losing another comrade in this godforsaken place._" Captain Mel'nikova snapped.

"_Copy that Ruskie. Names Sam by the way._" the Marine offhandedly mentioned.

"_I'm married._"

Hibiki tracked the fleeing machine, setting his features in a hard line. But after seconds he sighed. "Wardog One, do you copy? Please respond."

* * *

Far above Oran, a unique Knightmare weaved evasive maneuvers when it was greeted by enemy interception, zipping and twisting as ordnance rained around its curved form. With its stubby wings slashing through the air, it was astonishingly nimble at this altitude, despite the bulky airframe meeting significant drag. It was built to fight in the skies as well as it did on the ground, and fought it did, performing spectacularly even with its untested systems, and the pilot's lack of experience in this new chapter of KMF development. Designated the IFX-3F7 Bradford, this revolutionary platform was meant to ensure continued Britannian supremacy in the years to come.

A high powered round tore off a wing, lurching the Bradford in an unintended yaw before it was overcorrected back to a level state. The York Dovers acting as its escorts weren't so lucky; one fighter took a few shells through its fuselage that killed it immediately, exploding in a shower of debris. The other had half a wing chewed off, jerking unsteadily before righting itself, inevitably losing velocity from its dying engines. To add insult to injury, their hulking targets weren't even slowed by their hurried strike, below even her poor expectations.

"_Delta Twelve, respond!_" the pilot yelled, cursing seconds later when he twisted to avoid more zipping shells.

"He's gone Delta Five, ammo status?" demanded the pilot of the Bradford, a young woman on the young side of seventeen; fair complexion, auburn hair, and deep violet eyes, she was rather striking for someone barely out of adolescence. The inclusion of a thick maroon flight suit hid a figure that had already drawn the gazes of many potential suitors.

"_Down to gun only your highness."_

Scowling, Marrybell mel Britannia, eighty eighth in line for the Throne of the Britannian Empire, took a deep breath to mask her anger. "That's that then. We'll circle back and pick off any EU fighters, the vultures may try to attack."

"_Yes my Lady._"

The Bradford swung around with its escort, heading back to the modest skyline filled by smoke. Its plasma jet flared to propel the Knightmare forward, achieving high performance flight at the cost of endurance, a hard limit she was going to test. At the same time Marrybell eyed her munition counters; due to being rushed to North Africa, the envisioned weapon system was replaced by a conventional fifty millimeter autocannon. Thus far its performance wasn't disappointing, but still she wished she had that armor melting Hadron Destroyer instead.

She shook her head; Marrybell had to count her blessings she even had this unfinished machine. Acquiring it cost her a hefty favor from her brother Schniziel, but she asked him for aid anyway, leaving its test pilot back in the Homeland. Selfish she knew, but this was her moment, her battle against the Europeans. The glory would be hers, giving her the boost in prestige she desperately needed for her goals. Her dream project seemed so close now...

Her radar beeped insistently, eliciting a grimace. "Four more of those flying heaps are coming in from the Euro lines. Brazen fools are even throwing UAVs in the air after we shot down their last batch."

"_Acknowledged, orders?_"

Marrybell spared an unhappy look at Oran from above, spotting multiple giants darting through the city at breakneck speeds, systematically gutting the entire nine thousand man garrison. Yesterday she decried them as oversized white elephants, not realizing that sixty feet of height was far more intimidating when they danced around their barrage, and then gave as good as they got. Now with that wave of Portman knockoffs rising from the sea, the situation turned from bad to precarious.

"Fools, you doomed us." she muttered under her breath. The OSI briefing segment days ago was supposed to be accurate, thanks to means she was wise to not pry into; they said the ungainly giants, those Tactical Surface Fighters (what an uninspiring name she scoffed), were fast but sluggish, built to fight similar things to themselves and not more nimble Sutherlands. To fly their armor had to be paper thin, and their weapons correspondingly underpowered. Huge radar and thermal signatures. Piloted by starving refugees. Best of all, their sheer size ensured that hitting them was going to be a piece of cake. The Euros made a spectacle of the NUN Countries announcement as part of their popularity contests, so information retrieval on her own time was pathetically easy.

Marrybell had fought those things for an hour now. They weren't slow, thin skinned, weakly armed, or driven by incompetents. And they definitely weren't easy to shoot.

Their odd decisions at first, like doing nothing to encrypt their signals or masking their approach, gave way to a hard fight once they were over land. Marrybell thought she could wipe out half their forces by attacking first, but apart from damaging a carrier and some battleships (she couldn't believe her eyes at seeing actual battleships afloat), she managed only two kills at the cost of several fighters. Even going overboard on anti air artillery guns in the city only felled a few more than projected, since those things were extraordinarily skilled at hugging terrain. And from what comm chatter she overheard many TSFs seemed to anticipate being engaged by Knightmares up close; she assumed the Euros told them what to expect.

Flashing alerts came onto her screen, that of a general transmission across all military channels, without even a basic signal scrambler. Marrybell grimaced at the audio only icon, sensing this wasn't good.

"_This is Lord Patterson to any Britannian soldiers who can hear me. As acting commander of all forces in this sector, I am hereby announcing a general retreat from Oran. I say again, we are retreating from Oran._"

"That coward." Marrybell hit her special comm system; nothing short of severe jamming could block it, and the line was heavily encrypted to boot. "Zevon, status. Where's Lord Meisel?"

Static.

"Zevon, report." Marrybell's voice rose an octave. She tilted the Bradford closer to the city, feeling the Knightmare jostle from flak shells booming nearby. Her escort hung back rather than risk getting hit, but she didn't mind his cowardice at the moment. "Oldrin, pick up the-"

Three seconds. That was all the time she had to fly over the city hall, currently the forward HQ for the Algerian front. Now just a smoking crater, surrounded by multiple TSFs destroying any Britannian forces left, and not far away those blue goliaths steadily marching inland pushed their soldiers into a pincer. If there were any survivors, they were doubtlessly being captured. Assuming they were taking prisoners.

Marrybell was still for a long moment, all the blood draining from her features. The only thing that could bring her back to the present was a shell detonating nearby her Knightmare, raining shrapnel off her hull. About that time she registered her radio squawking ever more insistently.

"_My lady, enemy fighters closing! We have to leave!_" her escort yelled.

Marrybell swallowed a lump. "C-copy. B-breaking off."

The Bradford swung away, veering randomly a moment to escape a fighter closing in, then she turned westwards with her escort at her flank. She took a few hits along the way, but nothing that could break through her Knightmare's armor. Not that she even realized it.

Marrybell kept enough presence of mind to note multiple radar signatures on her display, reporting that there were several fighters and man sized Euro recon drones at her tail, just entering visual range if she cared to look behind her. Even hitting her afterburners didn't lose them, what should've gained her chagrin and some pointed questions to the Bradford's engineers, but that had to wait for later. With a snarl she slapped herself across the cheek, forcing her thoughts into working order.

"_We're not losing them at this rate my Lady. You need a distraction if you're going to escape alive._" the pilot said grimly.

Marrybell snapped to her console. "What're you saying?"

"_It was an honor to serve alongside you, your highness. I only request that you make these bastards pay for this._" at that his jet pitched its nose to veer back the way they came, slamming his throttle with no more care for its damaged plane.

"Wait, no! Get back here!" Marrybell shouted. On her radar the lone fighter sped towards a flight cluster, likely with his gun firing away with reckless abandon.

"_For Britannia you-_" there was a staticky crash through the line, an enemy icon and his winking out. And then there was silence. Just her whining engine, and the bleeps of her radar showing the enemy keeping pace.

Marrybell let the g-forces press her against her seat, gaping. She didn't even know his name, yet this pilot, very likely a commoner, sacrificed himself for her. Shaking away a gasp, she laid on her throttle towards the nearest friendly airbase, Aïn Témouchent if memory served. Gritting her teeth, she slammed a fist against the side. "Damnit!"

Her return to grace, reentering the Emperor's favor to pursue her life's goal. Her glory, winning a victory over the decadent European Union and their refugee allies, slaying their toys to grind that bombastic propaganda into the dirt. Her dream, the means to put an end to terrorism throughout the world; old memories bubbled up, of screaming and crying and acrid smoke. What she vowed to stop from ever happening again. Once her personal project was formed at last, she planned on paying a visit to Area Eleven to do something about that Zero thug, who slew her brother Clovis. The Glinda Knights were supposed to be a force of justice in this war torn world, putting an end to cowards who fought with terror. She demanded nothing less.

Oldrin Zevon, her closest friend, and something more.

All gone.

As the ground passed beneath the Bradford, Marrybell saw her future vanish at the same rate. This was to be her shot to the big leagues as the commoners called it, her means to make her dreams a reality. Now she was running for her life. Her paltry honor guard, the humiliation of having that arrogant Margrave boss around Royalty, her closest companion joining her tomfool crusade, it was all for nothing. She had nothing left but the Bradford and shame now. Tears stung at her vision, a raggedy hiccup forcing past her lips.

And to rub salt in the wound, Schniziel would make her pay for damaging the prototype Knightmare. Not with money, no, that was too easy; what little influence she had was now going to his side, her own ambitions were to be redirected to his goals or curbed. It was something he would lord over Marrybell for the rest of her days. Just like her radar warning her repeatedly about the UAVs closing-

"Wait." she got out, right before gunfire flashed inches from her hull.

Marrybell yelped as she dove, the sky and ground turning nauseatingly fast until she leveled out, weaving to dodge concerted bursts streaking overhead. Clenching her teeth, the Bradford whipped around to transform from flight mode to ground, sacrificing raw speed for agility as she zoomed away from the attacker. Whatever bravado she felt evaporated the moment she saw what she was up against.

"What the..." her eyes widened at the sight, watching it loom into her screen, barely four hundred feet away and gaining. It was a TSF based on its size, but a completely different kind than the two or three other types she saw back there. Pointed armor, a narrow head unnervingly pointed at her machine, gunmetal black, and brandishing twin rifles the size of Sutherlands, this thing oozed predatory vibes from every angle. And from looking at its boosters swiveling to match her jockeying direction, more than capable of keeping up.

For a second she switched between her console and the machine approaching her, flying with maneuvers that her Bradford would be hard pressed to match, and abruptly realized its radar signature was tiny. Her blood ran cold when she realized this was the recon UAV contact she kept getting, what she ignored this whole time.

Regardless of her fear, Marrybell set her features into a glare. "Your weak stealth won't save you from me you dog-gah!"

She screamed at the Bradford lurching roughly, throwing her against her restraints every which way. Around Marrybell the hull squealed and cracked, preceding warbling alarms blaring countless alerts, all things she couldn't read thanks to being whipped around repeatedly. Not until the omnipresent plasma jet whine suddenly cut out did she realize what happened, yelping when she felt her stomach drop, then gasped at being jerked up. Her screen went dark when something huge clamped over her cameras.

Snarling from stress, Marrybell laid on her trigger; the autocannon satisfyingly thumped the Bradford at whatever target it was pointed at. Her half grin lasted but seconds before the fire suddenly cut out, and a powerful screech jerked her around yet again.

"You bastards! You won't get away with this!" Marrybell screamed in her cramped cockpit from rage and indignation, scared out of her mind. "I'll hunt you down! Your families, your friends, they'll pay for what you've done!"

The Bradford's comm system was still active despite the primary sensor mast being crumpled, but the resulting signal wasn't powerful enough to defeat the ECM jamming engulfing it. Just as the two TSFs closing in wanted. Their results were a bit messy, but overall things went swimmingly for what they accomplished, all while slowly losing altitude towards the ground being bathed by the dawn sun.

In the cockpit of the first F-22 Raptor that fired, Major Walken grunted in satisfaction. "Careful with the package Two."

"_Easier said than done sir._" replied Second Lieutenant Irma Thesleff, callsign Hunter Two, in a strained tone. For good reason; her Raptor struggled with the gold and red machine in her grip, trying to hold onto its thrashing form. Twisting off the big gun in its hand helped, as did crumpling its back jets, but the enemy pilot evidently wasn't going to make things easy. It was almost comical, like a parent trying to wrestle with an angry child-

Walken shook his head with a breath. His brow creased when his tight beam line activated, spying his other troops closing in. Internally he sighed in relief; he couldn't let himself be distracted yet.

"_Spike One to Hunter One, we have eyes on Bravo aerial assets inbound to your location, ETA four mikes._" reported First Lieutenant Hill, leading a flight of F-15E Strike Eagles as his backup and decoys. Nowhere near as glamorous as personally blowing up supply dumps and ravaging rear line troops all across the front, but they already bailed his flight out of trouble twice now.

"Acknowledged Spike, we're out of here." Walken commanded, turning his Raptor back to friendly lines, taking the lead over Thesleff with her struggling cargo. In seconds two more dark Raptors swooped around her TSF in a delta formation, all four machines flying high on their way back to Algiers. Far below the Strike Eagles broke off to spread out, ranging ahead to make sure they wouldn't be caught. Not for a second did he let himself relax, grimly aware of this being the perfect time for something to go wrong.

They were flying higher than Walken liked, but he didn't want to risk the package being damaged, more than it already had he corrected. Intelligence identified the pilot as a high ranking officer, possibly Royalty, not to mention that machine was a wildly different type than the standard fare they encountered thus far. Returning it (mostly) intact would allow them to learn its secrets.

Them being the Europeans Walken mentally added, grimacing at the thought. He didn't agree with the government's decision to go under the EU's patronage, but he acknowledged that they didn't have much of a choice. He was one of few officers who was privy to the Bridge experiments in the wake of the JFK Hive operation, trying to find any means to stave off extinction. Using America's share of the paltry G-Elements retrieved from the Hive, they opened portals sixteen times; half of those couldn't support the matter of their universe, the rest had BETA or blasted hellscapes worse than the salt deserts. The seventeenth was the best suited option out of an unknown number of potential failures, so he didn't blame the President, formerly Washington State's governor, from seizing a bad choice now, rather than wait for a great one that may never come.

"They didn't pick them anyway." he murmured, sparing a dark look at the red and gold Knightmare trying in vain to escape. At the sight of that thing he involuntarily gripped his controls tighter. The Britannian Empire was a slap to the face to everything he fought for; Liberty, Rule of Law, Equality, they trampled it all underfoot and mocked what remained, proud of their oppressive empire. Fighting them now was unwise he recognized, but he accepted that war between America and Britannia was inevitable.

"_Hunter One, eyes on a Euro unit five klicks out, bearing southeast at sixty degrees._" Hill reported.

Walken followed the directions to discover an infantry cluster outside of a tiny village, holding position by a row of transports. Raising a brow, he magnified his screen onto the position, trying to see what they were doing. There was supposed to be a general advance on all fronts, so why were they...

"Hunter Flight, Spike Flight, continue on your course." Walken commanded sharply, dropping his Raptor on a full burn towards that town.

"_Hunter One, what's going on?_" Thesleff demanded worriedly.

"Go, I'll catch up later." Walken closed the line and slowed, his machine's feet only a few meters from the rocky soil. He made sure his radar was clear prior to slowing, flaring his jump units for a coasting landing right by the town, causing the hundred or so men arrayed by a larger building to jerk back from the dust he kicked up.

His Raptor thumped from his landing, engines throttling down as he aimed both his rifles at the troops. Walken spied three different types of uniforms down below; the dark blue of EU Army, Algerian Army beige, and lined up on their knees with hands on their heads, the dark grey of Britannian ground troops lined up before a trench. There was a hundred and twenty altogether he estimated, a few less than a minute ago.

"I am Major Alfred Walken of the United States Army. Stop what you're doing immediately, or I will open fire." his loudspeaker boomed in synthetic french. Dozens of men flinched, with many of the hunched Britannians peeking up with fear at the giant in their midsts. Save for the few at the end of the line, still and lifeless with bullets in their heads.

A lot of the Algerian troops aimed weapons at him, but rifles and machine guns wouldn't hurt his Raptor before he cut them down. Setting his features in a hard line, he spotted an EU officer scramble into a truck to get on a radio, swiveling his gun towards him just in case he tried to flee. When his line crackled he flicked it on without relaxing his aim.

"_This is Captain Vercetti, I request that you lower your weapons Major._" his translator turned his voice into english, making him grit his teeth.

"I will lower my weapons when friendly forces arrive. Until then I will not abide executing unarmed prisoners." he stated flatly.

"_Major, those jackals gunned down the town's inhabitants right before we arrived. Many of these men came from here. These Britannians are monsters._" the Captain protested. Plenty of Algerian troops glared at him and the prisoners alike, with the latter looking absolutely terrified.

"That is no excuse. Contact others, or I will obliterate your men." Walken clicked off his line. Under his breath he muttered curses, glaring at the Britannians too. "Barbaric."


	9. Chapter 9

_The next day..._

Bright lights appeared with hefty clanks, creating twin beams stabbing through the midnight gloom. Caught on the open, the three victims illuminated by the powerful searchlights flinched from the sudden change, gripping weapons close as they tried to avert their eyes from the blinding radiance. Each inadvertently retreated a step on the concrete dock, just off the ramp leading to a small cargo ship. Seconds later the grimacing oldest of the bunch, clad in unassuming trousers and a jacket like his companions, lowered his hand to squint towards the overlooking positions.

"Remain where you are!" yelled an english speaking voice from out of sight, accompanied by the distinctive clicks of several rifles chambering at once.

Dropping his arm, Colonel Karl Bindl groaned unhappily. He felt vindicated rather than afraid; their trip here, starting in Odessa and going across Chinese Federation territory to Busan under false identities (or none at all depending on the contact) went far too smoothly for his liking, even with the usual hiccups, delays, and threats to the Russian and Zilkhstanian smugglers when they tried to extort more money from them. Exhaling slowly, he twitched his head just far enough to speak to his two men, the first team he dispatched to recon the port here in Fukuoka.

"Listen up. This is bad, and we're probably gonna die." Karl started grimly, feeling rather than seeing the two men frown. "However, we have a shot here. Odds are long but maybe, just maybe, we can..."

Rumbling interrupted him, that of a heavy vehicle moving on concrete nearby. Swiveling forward, he spotted the unmistakable silhouette in the light, a bipedal figure standing roughly four and a half meters tall. In the dull black Knightmare's hands was a heavy machine gun, capable of putting twenty five millimeter rounds downrange at a rate of five hundred a minute. More than sufficient to shred anything man sized, especially for those standing in the open like frightened deer. Two other Knightmares prowled out of the darkness to train weapons on them, coming in from the right and left, roughly twenty meters apart from one another. At the sight of that he took a moment to rub the bridge of his nose.

"Never mind, we're screwed." Karl slumped.

And yet they didn't open fire. He raised a brow, estimating maybe twenty or thirty men behind the lights, but they neither cut him down or sent in poor saps to physically restrain them. The Britannians had Knightmares here, so there was no reason for them to be cautious. Unless...

When a lone figure appeared from between the Knightmare's legs he tensed, discreetly waving his comrades down as they approached, joined by a half dozen men moving into the light. A descriptor he amended upon seeing them; a couple were women oddly enough, but the others didn't look like soldiers now that he examined them closely. As far as he knew Britannians didn't dress their troops in fashionable black jackets with visors, nor did they give weapons to Numbers lightly, as these people were. In fact only one of them was Britannian, a portly middle aged man aiming a pistol at them.

But the leader, he was the focus of Karl's attention. Someone in a black and purple costume, a ridiculously long cape, and a silly looking black mask shaped vaguely like a chess piece. He looked comical by his standards, and was very likely the third or possibly second most powerful individual in the entire country. The cream of Europe's intelligence service determined that this figure was a he, and little else; age, nationality, personal history, all were unknowns. Karl very much did not like the dearth of intel, especially in a risky mission such as this one.

Halting a couple body's length away, he affixed his featureless stare upon the foreign soldiers.

"Men of the Fourth Reconnaissance Regiment, the Black Knights welcome you to Japan." greeted the man known as Zero, tilting his helmet back a degree. His distorted voice spoke in fluent english, lacking any discernible accent.

Exchanging a glance with his puzzled men, Karl lowered his rifle. "Zero I presume?"

"I am, Colonel Karl Bindl." he said, earning a flickering wince.

"Good sources, huh." he mumbled unhappily.

"You shouldn't be startled. Your contact network is willing to trade information to anyone. I on the other hand am quite surprised your superiors sent you here, the man responsible for the destruction of Mohammad Basra's Free Egyptian Front." Zero told him casually, but with a hint of audible disgust.

Karl grimaced, aware of the Black Knights exchanging uneasy looks with one another. "That wasn't me, and that's not why I'm here."

"Then why did you come?" Zero turned around. As he spoke one of the Knightmares stalked closer, a smooth red and orange thing that bore little resemblance to any type he saw before, especially the detail concerning the huge claw it had for a hand. He overheard reports that the Black Knights group was well equipped by terrorist standards, but customized KMFs? How did they get a hold of those?

He had no time to ask. Noise from the ship reached his ears, scuffles and harsh words in french going into the open before cutting out. Exhaling slowly to brace himself, Karl twisted around to quietly groan; for stomping into view was his naive underling, whom he had to keep hidden from the various thugs transporting them here. Clad in a rugged jeans and jacket outfit, Major Leila Malcal fearlessly marched down the ramp with her sheared locks bouncing from her steps, the result of his firm insistence to get rid of that flowing hair. All the while she ignored the great many guns swiveling to her, undaunted during her entrance. One of his men was pushed aside as she came right up to his flank, facing forward with stout determination.

"Zero, just who I wanted to see." she said in heavily accented english, standing a mere two meters from him. A bit too close based on the way the Black Knights twitched weapons at her, although several remained fixed on his men. Karl however gripped his forehead with a sigh.

"Major Leila Malcal, you're a bold one." Zero made a tsk noise, as if he was hiding a scoff. If she was bothered by that she didn't show it in the slightest.

"Boldness is the key to victory. Hiding in the dark will only prolong this war, to bring an end to the fighting we have to stand and fight. Japanese and European alike." Malcal declared strongly.

Zero crossed his arms under his cape. "A bit suspect coming from you Major, given your heritage of Britannian nobility."

Karl snapped his head towards Malcal, just like everyone else in the vicinity, his men and the Black Knights copying each other; while he hadn't spent much time getting to know her, that was the sort of information he didn't appreciate being kept hidden. But instead of getting upset she simply set her features in a hard line.

"Whatever your intel sources claim Zero, I am European. I am no more Britannian than you are." for a split second Karl thought he saw a flinch from him, but it happened so quickly that he couldn't be sure. "You are right to be suspicious of our arrival, I'll admit it. But I give you my word that my intentions are honest."

One of the Black Knights cursed under their breath, needing a companion to send a discreet gesture at him. At the same time Karl leered at the men reaffirming their aims, as well as the Knightmares rumbling a moment to shift their positions, the red one in particular ensuring it had a clear line of sight on them.

"So you claim, but is it not true that Paris wants to co-opt the Japanese resistance to their own ends?" Zero began sharply, earning a wince from her. One Karl felt no matter how little his expression actually changed.

"They ordered no such-" she tried to say, only to be silenced by him jabbing up an arm towards them.

"Morocco, a puppet republic that changed nothing from its colonial days. The Middle Eastern League burned in revolution, despite several illegal operations to keep it's weak government intact, and was reborn into a Federation that put aside ancient feuds to unite against a common foe. Russia waged no less than eight wars to preserve its sovereignty against constant border encroachments. The Britannian invasion is all that kept them from further conflicts with Paris." Zero continued at every wince from Macal, who offered no comeback. When his fist closed his pitch dropped to a near growl. "And now you have a new ally, the expatriate Empire of Japan. As part of the New United Nations alliance, they claim to be the lawful rulers of this land, in league with the European Union."

"It's not-that is not why I'm here." Malcal protested, twisting her features into a scowl. Her display left the onlookers unconvinced and even more unfriendly now than earlier, much to Karl's dismay.

Zero lowered his arm. "The Black Knights were not created to exchange one foreign master for another. You will find no pawns in Japan."

Karl grimaced, mentally preparing himself for either a fight to the death or being put back on the boat. Internally he chastised himself for sloppiness, making a mental list of smugglers to interrogate for selling them out.

But when he saw Malcal unexpectedly grin harshly, he balked in alarm.

"While I cannot vouch for the Colonel or his men, I swear in the name of God that I speak true. I am here to help with no ulterior motives. But if you want proof of my sincerity, then allow me to demonstrate." she lifted a hand overhead and snapped her fingers.

At the signal one of the cargo ship's boxes exploded in a rain of wooden planks, as a huge machine leapt from the ship in a whine of servos, its ivory form standing out in stark relief against the night sky. When it landed several meters from them Karl gasped, jerking away from the new Knightmare rushing upwards, meeting the Black Knights' weapons with its own long barreled rifle. Ten meters apart from one another, the red custom jabbed the claw, now glowing with a sudden flash of heat from the center, to aim at the lithe newcomer's gun. Both remained in a tense standoff, regardless of the squishy people right by their feet.

While Zero flinched from the sudden arrival, Malcal planted a fist on her waist to smile. "Meet the WOX-Type One prototype, designated the Alexander. This seventh generation machine is the cutting edge of European KMF technology. It will help you win your fight."

It was certainly a different KMF type than what Karl had seen before; thin bodied, twin sub arms on the back, and with a rounded head, the Alexander appeared almost effeminate compared to the boxy Knightmares Britannia used. From here he saw that it was a little shorter than the red custom, even with its legs bent in a primed squat, and its limbs were spindly next to its thicker opponent. But it moved with a level of fine control he never saw in a machine before, quick and dexterous in ways no other KMF he knew of could match.

Zero swiveled his helmet to her again, though Karl was sure he spared a glance at him too. "Intriguing. And you intend to operate these alongside the Japanese."

"No." Malcal shook her head, reaching for her pocket. She only paused when three rifles snapped her way, along with the Alexander's head Karl noted, after a moment drawing a small computer tablet to hold out. "I'm gifting them to you. This is the complete technical specifications and schematics of the Alexander, it's yours to employ as you see fit. This variant has been modified to use RPI series energy fillers to lessen supply difficulties."

Without a doubt Zero hesitated to accept, slowly taking the proffered information to read. The closest Black Knights spared uncertain looks, especially when he made a grunt sound, lowering it to peer at her once more.

"And this?" he posed expectantly.

"You mean the Type eighty nine Mechanized Infantry Armor? Man portable powered exoskeletons capable of lifting ten tons of weight. We brought twenty units, gifts from your exiled cousins. They are no Tactical Surface Fighters, but they can still be quite effective." she explained proudly, flopping towards the soldiers to meet Karl's puzzled glance. "My apologies for not mentioning that addition to our manifest Colonel, but you seemed busy."

However much Karl wanted to chew out his uppity subordinate for going behind his back (and handing out EU state secrets like candy, that was bad too), it had to wait for later. He discovered there was going to be another time when Zero waved an arm, causing the Black Knights to reluctantly lower their weapons, with the Knightmares slowly following suit. The last to do so was the red machine, who waited for the Alexander to sling its weapon away to drop its claw.

"Make no mistake Major, this isn't trust. But the Black Knights do not frown on gifts." Zero warned with a slow nod, causing Malcal to beam. Next he switched to Karl, who grimaced under his gaze. "And you Colonel?"

"Hey, I'm just here to harass the Britannian army. Point me at someone you don't like and everything will work out fine. If you want I can show your guys a few tricks." he waved off, adopting a fake smile.

"Very well. I'll grant you a chance." Zero decided.

Letting out a breath, Karl allowed his men to head back to the ship, joining Malcal and a gaggle of Black Knights boarding to offload their cargo. Both unique Knightmares powered down, still glaring at one another all the while. Shifting his weight in the meantime, he slung his rifle's strap around his shoulder and turned away, but before he moved a step he detected Zero coming up behind him.

Facing the man, Karl noted he had several centimeters of height on him, and at this close he was able to make out tiny scratches on the otherwise smooth helmet. "Yes?"

"A moment please, Colonel. I need you to tell me something." Zero spoke lowly enough that his voice didn't carry past a couple meters, leaving them alone for a moment.

There was a click, opening a tiny flap where his left eye should be. Karl had just enough time to discover he had a purple iris, and then everything went blank.

"What are your real orders?" Zero questioned darkly. Standing up straight, he peered expectantly as the helm's lid clamped shut, hidden from view once more.

"To assist the local resistance for a six month deployment. I am to disrupt enemy operations in this country, acquire intel for EU military command, and terminate high value VIPs such as the current Viceroy. I am also required to make a comprehensive list of leaders and factions here, if necessary eliminating problematic ones such as the Black Knights. My actions are to help groom this nation to accept the leadership of the Imperial Japanese government, which will be friendly to European interests." Karl explained quickly and concisely. The moment he stopped a faint light around his irises, invisible to the naked eye, faded away, and life returned to him as if nothing happened. "What do you need?"

"I only wish to know your stake in this matter." Zero spoke. By his side he clenched a quivering fist.

* * *

**A/N: bit of a shorty this time, just making sure I'm not neglecting any side plots (like I know I'm doing already). We'll be returning to the main show soon enough. But while I'm here, I'm gonna drop an announcement: remember that note from chapter six, it said that I wasn't going to make a side story for the extra detail stuff? Well... I changed my mind again.**

**The fact is that there is a LOT that should be covered here, and trying to cram that all in here runs the risk of seriously bloating the story. Characters, plot lines, all that jazz, there's so much that I want to cover; from the obvious stuff like tech blending, the political affairs that explained the seemingly oddball decisions going on, and in case you feel your eyes rolling at that, more battles pitting the two sides together. Eg Walken's actions during the past few chapters. Talking heads are dull, F-22s blowing up Britannians with the power of 'Murica is baller. **

**BUT, here's the thing. I don't want to do it if nobody wants to read about this stuff, and I can tell you right now that for every scene of mecha appreciation, there'll be boring stuff like logistics of integrating things together (and the actual logistics of supplying all the fuel and bullets, that's been bugging me), or how NUN settlement life is going. There's also this oddball idea of EU forces heading to the ML side for humanitarian relief; honestly I would love to write that, but where oh where to put it? The main plots already moving too sluggishly. If you guys want me to write this thing I will, but I won't release such a story if it doesn't interest you. I do apologize for the pretty blatant review bait, but this is something I've been chewing on for a while.**

**Okay, now that this vexation is aired, here's an omake. Because hey, I won't drop a cheap chapter without a little bonus.**

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_Boston, ATB 2020..._

The storm raged, lightning flashing continually across the turbulent skies. Rain pelted off of Euphemia's jacket as she ducked out of the rugby stadium building and out of the cargo entrance, panting and yelping in raw terror. One arm was raised overhead to protect herself from rain and flinging debris, the other clutching her suitcase sized prize underarm, all while she held on for dear life. Her breath came and went in fast gulps, letting out a shriek at concrete gravel raining around her.

Destruction greeted her terror stricken eyes outside; roiling clouds dropped torrents of rain and hail from above, turned into lethal distractions thanks to the gale force winds that threatened to throw her aside. It was dark out despite being almost noon. She almost couldn't believe that a mere hour ago there was cloudy daylight when she arrived here, what she had no time to appreciate then. There was even less now, her hyperventilating gasps of equal parts effort and terror saw to that.

"Just have to, just have-" she repeated breathlessly. All her bravado from yesterday was gone, from when she defied her companions to sneak into enemy territory. It seemed so simple then; raid the OSI's secret base in the Homeland and steal their means to prevent this apocalypse, what they built to reverse their losing war with the United Federation of Nations. So simple, and it all went so wrong.

Without warning, coursing energy swept by the entrance she left seconds earlier, the concussive power of the yellow beams throwing Euphemia aside like a toy. For the brief moment of being in midair she screamed, until landing in a pile to tumble of twisted limbs, unwittingly flopping onto her hands and knees. Though she heaved in pain, she didn't dare let go of her prize. Not until the ground below her thumped from a powerful impact so very close, startling her into a yelp. Still breathing heavily, she threw her head back to look up, and up...

Euphemia wanted to freeze, such was the level of her fright. It wasn't the fear of a tense gunfight, or any conventional accident or threat; what she beheld was something out of mankind's primordial memories, of great monsters that long ago vanished. But now it had returned in all of its terrible glory, the titanic might of this abomination as intimidating as a god in the unholy flesh. And it was focused on her alone.

Six golden eyes peered down on the tiny human, the monster's entire bulk shaking the earth from every footfall and every impact of its enormous claws, folding up a wingspan that eclipsed even her father's flagship in width. Its golden scales glittered each time a lightning bolt struck, flashing endlessly from the unnaturally fierce storm. And from its three mouths, elongated maws the size of city buses radiating ash and death, came a sonorous growl that shook her to the bone, guttural and vicious in ways no creature of this world could rival. And its eyes, those terrible eyes, they showed with a light of sentient intelligence. One that she didn't hesitate to call evil.

Euphemia's hands shook, but she drew on her reserves of willpower to complete her self appointed task. She came all this way to save the world from this monster, she couldn't falter now, not while she was so close. With all her strength she threw her thrumming package towards the monster, watching it land with a crack several meters away. Her skin's prickling lessening a minute degree when all its eyes turned away from her, landing on the device that awoke this creature from its slumbering prison, and with a contemptuous smash that nearly blew her away, its wing claw silenced the subsonic machine once and for all. A crater as deep as she was tall was born in the soil when it withdrew the limb. Its chattering shrill roar sounded out across the ruined city, a declaration of triumph over a helpless foe.

That was it. A bizarre hum she could barely hear, what caused this looming apocalypse, was no more. And now Euphemia was going to die.

"You monster." she gasped, digging up fistfuls of grass from her clenching hands.

What was left of her strength let her stumble to her feet, her movements woozy from her overstrained muscles, nearly tumbling again when she stood up. Still breathing deeply, she squinted through the rain to peer at the three serpentine heads rearing back, once again unnervingly focusing on her, their synchronous cries reaching a fever pitch. From the base of their necks glowing energies built up, traveling up their slithering throats to be used on her, no matter how ridiculously overkill it was.

Euphemia gathered what remained of her willpower to hold her ground. She was a kind soul through and through, but this was her last moment. Those she cared for could take comfort in knowing she died on her feet, defiant in the face of the Devil's wrath. When its shrill cries reached a crescendo, with all her heart she screamed in response, holding back nothing.

Boom.

Again Euphemia was buffeted, only just avoiding being thrown away. By reflex she threw her hands up at the bright flash, yelping at the spots in her vision from a cascade of blue energy. Lowering her arm, she just caught the three headed monster land in a tremendous heap on the other side of the stadium, its tumbling bulk rattling the earth from its hefty landing. Its wings flailed with its unexpectedly pained cries, achingly loud despite the crash of flattened buildings nearby.

"Wha..." she felt raw confusion as the ground shook again, then again, until it dawned on her what the jarring thumps resembled, and most importantly, where they came from. Euphemia slowly rotated the opposite direction, her eyes widening as a familiar echoed swam over the city.

Him. Him in all his majesty, a tower of craggy scales and glowing power, a comforting azure instead of that awful yellow. Each of his vast stomps shook the earth, while his swinging tail swept over luckless buildings in his wake, swaying in rhythm to the dorsal spines swaying. The storm did absolutely nothing to slow down this force of nature. His narrowed gaze was locked onto the cause of all the destruction of the past week, the bestial yet noble face of the monster glared at the abomination scrambling upright, each of its heads snarling upon seeing his approaching form.

Euphemia smiled, especially when she realized he wasn't alone.

Throwing his head up to roar, Godzilla challenged the usurper to battle once more, as his newfound allies flanked him; Britannian Yorks by the dozens blasted by his enormous bulk. Float equipped Knightmares darted around buildings, a mix of Vincents and Gekkas. F-35 Lightnings IIs joined Shiranui Mark Twos, Typhoon Zweis, and even Sheffield TSFs to encircle the battlefield. Gunships by the dozens swarmed over rooftops into the fray. And looming overhead, three airships braved the storm to approach: the USS Constitution, the HMS Avalon, and at the head of the formation, the Black Knight's flagship Ikaruga. Regardless of nationality, every human machine aimed weapons upon their mutual foe.

On the bridge of the Ikaruga, Lelouch glared through his mask as the aircraft blew past his ship. "Allied forces concentrate fire on Ghidorah. That monster dies today."

Missiles from dozens of aircraft streaked away, jets matching Lightnings and Typhoons in a barrage of high explosives, overwhelming the volume made from the Black Knights airship and the Britannian cruiser, zipping in to detonate against Ghidorah's wing raised defensively. Hadron cannons stabbed across the stormy skies in several angry beams, almost distracting the eye from the VARIS batteries. Autocannon fire poured like rain from the TSFs circling their target, interspersed by cracks of shells. And like a clap of thunder, the Constitution's spinal mass accelerator boomed, and a split second later a huge blast swam out from the Dragon's body, managing to stagger it back. Over the cacophony of fire and screaming engines came a roar of unmistakable pain.

Godzilla observed his ancient foe be harmed by the human weapons, and felt something approximating vicious satisfaction. Ghidorah recoiling, yelping, screaming in agony from once feeble creatures unleashing their might, and he had not even entered the fight yet. Filling his colossal lungs again, he roared louder than ever.

Lelouch saw the change in humanity's unlikely ally and made his decision. Snapping to the radio operator, he gave orders once more.

"Pull back, wait for an opening. Watch your fire." next he switched to a closed channel. "Suzaku, you're up, find her."

"_Roger that._" overlooked in the chaos, the Lancelot Liberate left its bay on powerful Float wings, zipping towards the stadium. Behind its controls Suzaku vowed to locate Euphemia, whatever it took.

When the TSFs drew back on their jump units Ghidorah shook off his shock, his many unexpected wounds already starting to heal. But there was no time to wait until he was fully ready. When Godzilla roared his three heads snarled back, jaws chomping in visceral anticipation, and with something approaching human fear.

Godzilla let out a bellow as he started to sprint, charging towards his ancient enemy with reckless abandon, his repeated footfalls as thunderous as an earthquake. Ghidorah cried out and charged to meet him, heads writhing as he threw himself forward on his wing claws, shaking off the explosions only now ceasing to detonate against his scales.

An immovable object met an unstoppable force, claws meeting jaws in a collision that sent a shockwave roiling in every direction. Aircraft were jostled by artificial turbulence, the omnipresent rain was flung away from the titanic conflagration, even the airships were rocked by the blow. But for the God and the Devil, the battle had started in earnest at last.

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**A/N: I'm not sure what possessed me to write this bit, its crap by my usual standards. But I needed something to pad out this chapter, and since I caught a KotM highlight video on youtube, I figure, why not.**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: here's another. Also, the side story will be dropping with the next update. Enjoy!**

Landing wheels touched down on the tarmac twice before skidding, bringing the two engined passenger jet to an uneventful stop into Regensburg Municipal Airport, just opened as of last year. After landing the jet taxied into one of a half dozen bays into a terminal, bumping the total plane count to three; one disembarking and the other loading passengers during its tending. A short bridge extended to the plane's side to align with a side exit, letting the door open to Bavaria.

Stepping out from the plane alongside a procession of travelers, Bindl gravitated towards the wall, working a stiff shoulder holding his travel duffel. Releasing a low sigh, he paused by the lounge windows to peer outside.

Visible from his spot, the medium sized airport had bright green trees lining the perimeter to lead into Regensburg itself, a modest urban sprawl that didn't look like the fourth largest city in Bavaria. From here he could just barely see old homes butting up to the airport, resting beside newer gleaming buildings stretching in every direction, all shadowed by numerous huge solar panels rising into the sky. The noontime sun illuminated everything in the glow of a nearly flawless late spring day. Closing his eyes a moment, Bindl used a moment to take it the sound of this place, hearing the comforting hum of german instead of french. More than a century and a half had passed since entering the fold and his native tongue was still going strong.

With a groan he cracked his neck and moved on. Along the way he caught several lingering peeks from other passengers, and not for nothing as much as he disliked it. Even in jeans and a light jacket suitable for the spring weather, he still had bandages on his hands and his neck, to say nothing of his stiff walk compared to most people's relaxed gaits. Admittedly that was due more to the tender wounds on his legs than by training, but coming right out of a fresh deployment meant he hadn't escaped old habits yet. Habits he would soon have to abandon entirely.

_In an Algiers hospital room Bindl sat helplessly, hooked up to an IV and coated in bandages, not to mention swimming in painkillers. He couldn't have been more different from the man in his fifties by the foot of his bed, showing a well trimmed beard lacking a speck of grey, and clad in a dress uniform bristling with citations. Most importantly from his point of view was a cluster of five stars on his breast pocket, and the cool gaze locked onto him._

_"You're quite the troublemaker Captain." greeted Major General Gene Smilas, speaking in a tone that promised he would regret his life._

_"Ah, General sir." Bindl nodded quickly, cringing both at his ignoble hospital gown and rather pathetic whimper of a reply._

_But he could do no better for now, and since the nurses were shoo'd away alongside his bedridden roommate, there was nothing to distract him. The wall mounted television in the corner, a few minutes ago telling him things such as 'Captain Antonio Vercetti facing life sentence for war crimes' and 'American NUN task force dispatched from Warsaw to aid Russia' and 'Prince Schniziel offers talks for safe return of captured royal' among other things, now silent as it rolled a sidebar about an exclusive interview with one Captain Gerard Bressette. Not even the distant sounds of a public protest downtown owing to disgruntled locals, a mere ten kilometers from the hospital, dented his attention._

_"You know why I'm here." Smilas stated without changing his expression one iota. "Assaulting a superior officer, mutiny, and battlefield incompetence are all severe offenses, doubly so in wartime. Triply here, Major Sieghart was one of my handpicked men for that phase of the operation. He is perhaps overly cautious, but he is also diligent, methodical, and loyal. Had you waited an hour, an armored battalion I ordered there would've led his charge to Oran."_

_"Sir, I didn't know." Bindl grimaced, but not entirely in self reproach much to his concern; if they were waiting for armor to be brought up, surely the command staff would've mentioned that during his bluff. Unless they didn't know about the reinforcements, but how could that be? _

_"Of course you didn't, you were a liaison officer away from his post, appearing from the dark to urge him to preemptively attack." General Smilas said dryly. "I'm not interested in your side of the story Captain. If not for extenuating circumstances, I would offer you a Prussian Absolution or have a firing squad prepared."_

_Bindl cringed at the suggestion to shoot himself, but then he raised a brow with a puzzled frown. "Sir, extenuating circumstances?"_

He shook his head. Not that the memory was banished oh no, he needed something much stronger to bury it anytime soon. Or ever he feared. But for now he kept walking, trying to dissipate his lingering tension, and not do something silly like inspect airport security for uniform infractions.

Once he passed through an entrance into the bustling terminal, Bindl muttered, "Home at last."

A slight limp marked his stride towards the registry desks, joining a line while drawing his passport from a pocket. Overall his journey home was remarkably uneventful; from boarding a Transall in Algiers to Sicily, then hitching a train ride to Rome, and then lastly a civilian hop to Regensburg, the worst thing to happen was some turbulence across the Mediterranean. After the events of the past two months he fully expected another crisis along the way.

The line moved steadily, letting him listen to some conversation nearby. He picked up a little when he overheard, "I heard that poor fool had to let his troops kill those prisoners or else they'd mutiny. Doesn't seem fair."

"Damn Algerians, bunch of savages. We pulled them out of the dirt and they still act like barbarians. But its not right that those Portal Britannians got to order them around."

"No kidding, should put 'em all on reservations in the desert. You heard they forked over a ton of real estate in northern England to the Franco-Britannian folk? And don't get me started on moving Elevens out of the refugee districts."

Binld frowned, sparing a glance at a couple men seated nearby talking to each other. Taking a breath, he shook his head and kept moving, not wanting to get involved in stranger gossip.

When his turn came he presented his papers to the clerk, had his ID verified, his ticket confirmed, and then received a stamp. "Safe travels sir."

Giving a nod, he turned and strode towards the exit nearby. On the way he rolled his stiff shoulders while adjusting his overnight bag, for a moment wincing at slivers of lingering pain under his bandages. After that was finished he let out a low breath to relax.

"Alright, better shop for dinner tonight. Tomorrow, should I visit Altstadt or the Dom first?" he mused under his breath. His speech was in German instead of French, having to catch himself when he started in the latter. Mid stride he snapped his fingers. "Do I still have some of those spices from the Roman market? Those would be great on some pasta."

A loud commotion snapped him out of his woolgathering, glancing over to discover a gaggle of people at a desk arguing with a clerk, while a wary security guard stood by with his arms crossed. A family who misplaced their passports? Pausing nearby, he made a headcount of five altogether, all women save for a short boy, dressed in worn out clothes with some travel cases. Only one had a skirt, marking them as newcomers to this region; even nowadays Bavarians tended to be more conservative than most of Europe, so women in pants were an uncommon sight.

It wasn't his business. He was off duty, he had no authority here, they likely made a mistake, home was twenty minutes away; his reasons to keep walking were countless. Instead he rolled his shoulders, wincing ever so slightly at his nerves complaining. Weaving around other travelers, he made his way to the desk at a relaxed pace, preparing to offer whatever help he could. Within reason as his bandages so insistently reminded.

"I'm sorry ma'am, I'll need to detain your party for questioning." the guard spoke in french, grabbing the lead brunette's arm only for her to wrench it away. Neither he nor the clerk appeared happy at her snarl, nor the hostility the others displayed.

When he was close Bindl cleared his throat, causing all of them to turn towards him. "Excuse me, what seems…"

He froze, and so did the brunette. For a moment he didn't recognize the woman in a sweater and skirt combo, but now that he got a decent look, he wondered how he failed to identify her.

"Bindl?"

"Marimo?" he let his jaw drop, scanning over her; aside from some curled hair and a wardrobe swap, she hadn't actually changed her appearance in a meaningful way. Yet somehow those tiny alterations made her almost completely different than before.

She crossed her arms to put on a deeper frown, while the rest of her party casted wary looks on him. Three were short and japanese; a nondescript girl with long black hair, a short brunette boy with darker skin, a bright looking stubby girl who was clearly younger than the rest, and the fourth was bizarrely a blonde caucasian in her twenties with frown lines. Not one had clothes that appeared new. All of them laid puzzled leers on him, switching to Marimo for guidance.

"Are you following me?" she said in english, causing the guard to bristle.

"What? No! Are you following me?" Bindl turned around, then winced at his accusatory tone. "I live here, I'm on leave."

"Excuse me, can I help you sir?" the guard stepped in with a raised hand, giving him a narrow eyed stare.

"Yes, er, what is the issue here?" he said after recovering his wits, realizing after the fact that he spoke in german.

"If you're asking about a problem, there isn't one except for these guys wanting to harass me. Ahem, je ne parle pa Français." she enunciated carefully while jabbing her hands in irritation. The blonde meanwhile cleared her throat.

"I already explained to them, but they insist there's an identification mistake." she said in badly accented french.

Gently pushing to the desk, Bindl rolled his shoulders. "Maybe I can help."

The clerk glanced at his screen for a moment, and then roughly stamped a form to shove over. "No, its been sorted out. Have a nice day."

Marimo snatched up her papers, slugging a duffel around her shoulder as she turned to stomp away. Her group spared glances at him before going after her, and with a groan he strode off after them, overtaking the younger travelers to catch up to her rapid pace. For a moment she didn't acknowledge him even as he entered her field of view.

"Mar-erm, Major Jinguuji?" he said quickly, mentally correcting himself.

"Much better." Marimo mumbled, coming to a halt to take a deep breath. When she opened her eyes again she laid an uncomfortable glare on him. "Drop the rank, I'm off duty. Now what are you doing here?"

"I live in Regensburg. Why are you here? And..." Bindl gestured at her followers. After exchanging a look with his companions, the lone boy stepped forward to clear his throat, flashing something across his expression at having to crane his neck back so far. He had a darker tint than the rest, but a mature face for someone of his height.

"Hi, I'm Tatsunami Hibiki. First Lieutenant of the IJA." he greeted in rough english, albeit a little better than Marimo's own. "I'm the leader of Wardog Flight when Major... Jinguuji-san isn't around."

Bindl frowned a little at his evident youth. "So, you're the Shiranui pilots who keep bumping into me."

"If you were that guy on the beach and the Lexington, then yep. Marimo says you're stalking her." added the blonde girl in flawless english this time, causing the woman in question to shrink back with a sudden glare. In spite of the uneasy peeks from her party she just smiled. "Second Lieutenant Ellen Aice of the Imperial Japanese Army, at your service. No I'm not, yes I know, and it's a long story." she interrupted him before he could more than open his mouth. "She talks bout you a lot-opmh!"

She doubled over from a sharp elbow to her stomach, the youngest one drawing away with a huff. Tiny and pink haired, she couldn't have been older than fifteen, a detail that made Bindl take umbrage. Upon meeting his gaze, she coughed and stood up straight, facing him instead of the groaning girl clutching her torso.

"Shizuku Miono, Rikugun Shoui-ah, Second Lieutenant?" she winced, sparing a glance at her nodding comrades. "I'm Eishi-ah, pilot. Sorry, english not good."

"It's alright, that's what I'm here for." the dark haired girl planted hands on Shizuku's shoulders to gently pry her away from the limelight, meeting his puzzled gaze next. "Second Lieutenant Sendou Yuzuka. Think of me as their minder Captain Bindl."

"Ah, I see..." Bindl nodded slowly. He spared an uncertain glance when Marimo rolled her eyes with a groan, crossing her arms after slinging her bag further up.

"We're escorting Jinguuji-san to an enclave nearby here." Hibiki finished with a wave of his hands.

"Enclave?" he asked, raising a brow.

"Its what they're calling the factories and research centers to share knowledge to your people." Marimo spoke up in a dry tone. "Japan's Isegawa Super Carbon plant is being built in the Shin-Kannai concession zone about forty kilometers from here, that way." she pointed east from the city. "Paris said they want to start constructing their own TSFs in two years, and I'm here because they're putting up a school for the workers' families. Now why are you here at the same time?"

Bindl exhaled slowly, falling under several curious eyes. "I'm on leave for the next two weeks, after that I'm being deployed to Africa again."

_"Yes, extenuating circumstances." General Smilas replied with a nod. "Public opinion polls in NUN enclaves skyrocketed when news came of EU soldiers actively helping their beleaguered forces. Especially the American and... Japanese settlements." the way he paused didn't escape his notice. "And not just them, there's already been a demonstration in Bucharest expressing their support for us entering the fray so recklessly. The public doesn't grasp the sheer amount of aid we've already granted to them."_

_"Oh." Bindl nodded slowly, starting to frown in confusion._

_"That's not what's saving you." Smilas shifted his weight. "The reason is simply because it'd be politically embarrassing for Paris to admit that the rapid counterattack was due to a mutiny. They don't want people knowing their control over the military is so weak."_

_There was something else to his tone that made him uneasy, but he had no opportunity to pry. "I understand sir."_

_"I doubt that, but that's not important. What is for you is that a trial would turn into a media spectacle unless its conducted in the Arctic circle. Much simpler to pretend it didn't happen than to jeopardize our standing." he explained crisply. "Hence my presence here."_

Bindl dismissed the thought, eliciting a sigh.

"What's with that look?" Aice asked, raising a brow when she recovered. When she peeked at Shizuku and Yuzuka both shrugged in puzzlement.

"He's fine, now let's go." Marimo started walking away, but only went a couple paces for the rest to catch up. But just as they began moving he strode in front of her again with an awkward cough.

"Can you wait a moment?" he asked quickly, raising a hand in supplication.

Again she halted, this time releasing an irritated huff. "What is it?"

Bindl let out a quick breath. "Well, ah, can I treat you to lunch?"

"It's..." Marimo blinked several times. "What?" Confusion rippled through her entire body, brow rising with a floored expression. Lowering his arms, he shifted his weight from one aching foot to the other, sighing to himself.

"I can tell you're still angry for what I said before, so I wanted to apologize." Bindl shrugged sheepishly. "I'll try to make up for it, and since I know a couple good restaurants nearby here..."

"I'm game!" Aice agreed cheerfully, earning a sharp glance from him.

"I wouldn't mind eating out. We're not supposed to be at Shin-Kannai until tomorrow anyway." Hibiki decided.

"Wait." he tried lifting a hand.

"I'd love to try authentic german cuisine, like that old restaurant back home. Whatever's here is definitely better than a refugee run cafe." Yuzuka nodded brightly.

"But I-"

"Real food? No protein bars or algae biscuits?" Shizuku practically bounded in place, her young face beaming in wonder.

Bindl internally cringed. It wasn't necessarily a question of money (although now he needed to be mindful of his finances), but rather the idea of having a band of kids joining him. Handling children was a skillset he lacked. But he was doomed to play babysitter anyway, especially when Marimo nodded slowly.

"I'm okay with this. Personnel management gave us a small stipend for expenses, but after flight tickets and bus fees I don't believe it's enough for anything but the cheapest fast foods." she alluded in a nonchalant tone.

Bindl groaned, wiping at his face. "Alright, I'll pay."

"Arigato!" Shizuku beamed with a hop to her step, Yuzuka and Hibiki enthusiastically nodding in agreement.

"So, where to?" Aice asked expectantly.

"There should be a few good places nearby here, I'll get a taxi-" Bindl jabbed a thumb towards the exit, only to be stopped by Marimo shaking her head.

"If its not far we'll walk. Save money and see the sights." she shrugged. Muffling a groan, he duly swiveled to the large doors of the terminal.

"This way." he said without much enthusiasm, taking the lead for the party to follow in his wake, knowing already that his tender legs were going to be upset with him later.

Such concerns were pushed aside when he stepped out of the airport terminal, and into the noisy hum of the parking lot, rumbling with cars and buses coming or going. And looming just beyond, Regensburg itself stood tall and proud on this cloudless day. But before he went more than a couple paces, he abruptly discovered a small event right outside the door, which he had led the group towards entirely without meaning to.

"Food, clothes, or money, we'll accept any donation! Cmon, its for a good cause!" A group of teens were clustered around a fold up bench with several boxes in front, hounding passerby's who came too close. Bindl just started to read a sign on the mount when one boy darted up to him, getting right into his face. He flinched from the invasion of his personal space, which failed to dissuade his attacker.

"Sir! Want to donate to charity?" Clad in a Sunday best suit, the boy peered at him with wide eyes, at least until he leaned to the side; a massive grin split his features at the sight of the wary IJA flight. "Ah, you already did your part?"

"Beg your pardon?" Bindl questioned guardedly, aware of Marimo raising a brow in confusion.

The boy drew back to beam at him. "We're with the St. Peter's Cathedral's youth program, gathering our share of the regional charity drive for the NUN alliance. But I see you're already helping the destitute."

"Ah, sure, I am." Bindl nodded, feeling rather than seeing Marimo edge around the rabble rousers. He started to leave, but paused to fish out his wallet. "Here, God bless you." he handed over a hundred euro note and took off after her, in the corner of his eye spotting Shizuku waving at the teens, and them cheerfully returning the gesture.

Clearing past the others, Bindl swept his head back and forth, noting the architecture transitioning to the quaint style of Regensburg's Old Town. The streets bustled with people, but less than he expected there to be, and many more closed signs than he remembered. The sight of an old glass shop he frequented years ago, now boarded up without any sign of life, gave him pause for several long seconds. Signs hung in the windows claiming a foreclosure, and that the property was for sale.

"So, this is Germany." Marimo commented, moving to his side to crease her brow, sweeping her head over their surroundings. The kids were behind her, doing nothing to hide their gawking.

"It is, yes." Bindl nodded, yet spared a glance at the pedestrians; speaking English wasn't advisable in the heart of Europe, he hadn't been gone long enough for that to change. "Have you ever been here before?"

She shook her head. "Germany was overrun years before I was conscripted. I heard it used to be nice."

"Ah." Bindl glanced to a dusty storefront to hide his grimace. After all this time, he still felt disturbed at the official history they presented; his homeland being obliterated, consumed by alien monsters, it was a tale to lose sleep over. He shook his head, refocusing on looking for a decent restaurant. He frowned again when they passed an old Turkish sweet shop, now lightless and closed down.

Hibiki pushed up to his opposite flank, his wrinkled expression poorly hiding his wonder. "You're from this city?"

"I live here, but I was born in a small town called Kreinheim, its about an hour away by train." he explained, pointing in its general direction. "I loved visiting Regensburg as a child, so when I made enough money I bought an apartment here. You know its one of the oldest cities in Central Europe?"

"Really? Its a beautiful place." Hibiki nodded with a smile. That tiny change brought forth the realization of just how young he was, much to Bindl's discomfort. "I'm from Okinawa myself, grew up on one of the smaller islands before my family moved to Kyoto. But I only spent a couple months there until the army board recruited me and every other kid on the street. Miono here was born in Kitakyushu, that's in Kyushu." he gestured behind him.

"Mm-hm, pretty city." Shizuku nodded, but her expression unexpectedly went glum when she turned away.

"What about your parents..." Bindl coughed at the sight of her wince. "I'm sorry."

"I come from Tokyo's Nerima ward." Yuzuka added a little quickly while taking her hand. "Used to love visiting this coffee shop down the street before I was conscripted."

When her gaze fell on Aice, she sighed. "A town called Belleville, in Ontario. I don't like bringing it up, there's a lot of bad blood between America and Canada, so for most people I just tell them Seattle. Its a little like this place, but not as old. Haven't been there since my draft notice came in."

"I see." Bindl nodded, regretting not knowing where they were talking about; he made a mental note to study a map when he got home. But the fact they were all conscripts, that was a detail he internally frowned at.

"Marimo-chan here is from Yokohama." Yuzuka added with a wave, the target of her gesture huffing without looking. "She doesn't like talking about it, so I thought I'd tell you. But for the last couple years we've all called Seattle home."

"That's on the North American west coast right?" Bindl checked, earning a nod. "Why there?"

At that Yuzuka's smile dimmed, along with Hibiki's and Shizuku's.

"Same reason why we came all this way. After the Day tidal waves buried all of the Home Islands, Japan itself is gone." Aice explained grimly in their stead. When she glanced around she offered an apologetic nod to a despondent Yuzuka and Hibiki.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Bindl waved his hands with a cringe.

Hibiki sighed. "Its alright. We weren't the only ones, every landmass from Alaska to Australia sunk too. A lot of refugees ended up on the Hawaiian island chain since it came through alright, but Japan was the only one to keep its government mostly intact. Almost everyone else lost all they had."

"What a stroke of luck on their part." Marimo muttered, adding something in her native language that caused Aice and Shizuku to send her worried looks.

"There were too many refugees to fit in Hawaii, so the Americans let several thousand Japanese settle in Seattle." Hibiki shook his head quickly. "But, uh, this place reminds me of Kyoto. A little."

"Are there parks here? Can we visit one later?" Shizuku perked herself up.

"Sure." this time he nodded with less reluctance as he expected. He wanted to pay a visit to the Herzogspark while he was home anyway, to see how it's proposed renovations had progressed since the last election.

Bindl turned forward just in time for an odor to waft across his nose. Sniffing to confirm, he felt himself salivate a little bit at the enticing aroma of cooked meat. They were definitely in the right area. He turned around to tell them as much, and found the group rooted in place; Marimo alone maintained a semblance of composure, the rest appeared absolutely stunned, slack jawed and sweeping their gazes from left to right. None more so than Shizuku, swiveling sideways to let her young countenance fall away, eyes widening and mouth dropping in a breathless cry of joy. She stood on her boot's toes to peer at the sign above her, hands shaking in excitement.

It was a rustic little display hanging over the door, itself an old thing made of stained glass and thick oak, fitting in nicely to the dark stone exterior. The medium sized building looked either quite old or made to resemble such, although scratches on the wood hinted it wasn't as well tended as it should've been.

"That smells..." Yuzuka closed her eyes as her nose bristled, taking in a deep scent wafting from the building. When her stomach audibly rumbled she blushed, at least before Aice's and Shizuka's did the same. And after a second Marimo's as well, something that caused her to groan. For that he cleared his throat for their attention.

"This is a Biergarten. I don't know if there's an english equivalent, but its sort of like a pub." upon seeing Marimo's eyes narrow, he coughed into a fist. "They sell good food too-"

"Here." Yuzuka and Aice said immediately, darting towards the door. Right behind them Shizuku ran, and with more restraint Hibiki followed. Marimo stood in place, giving the Biergarten a once over before sighing.

Bindl insistently wormed past them to grab the door handle. "I should do the talking here, some of these places don't use french."

Of course that wasn't the real reason, but he didn't want to say as much aloud; the frowns of Marimo and Hibiki illustrated his success. With a sigh he pushed open the door, feeling Aice hold it for the others filing in after him.

Inside the Biergarten was a well lit place, very homey in its own way; tables filled the cavernous room, clustered so walkways could go to the serving bar, with its many stools lined up in front. The lights above had the brightness to clearly see the surroundings, yet were dim enough to not strain visitor eyes. Under his feet stone flooring clacked slightly, polished granite to fit the dark oak beams and furniture, interspersed by landscape paintings. There weren't as many patrons as he expected, maybe a few dozen people altogether clustered at the far side, making the background noise rest at a comfortable hum.

"Looks nice." Hibiki said softly, his words causing several nods from the party.

A few people turned their heads when they moved to a corner table, in view of the exit and a wall mounted television nearby. Bindl let the others be seated before turning to the bar, only to be met by a bulky man with a thick mustache meandering to their spot, clad in flannels and an apron. When the older bartender, a head taller than him and easily a hundred kilograms heavier, came to a stop by their table he internally tensed.

"What will it be?" he groused in german, pulling out a small notepad and a pen.

"Oh. Ah..." he blinked, and for that the barman jabbed his pen at a menu sign over the bar.

"Hey, can I get a steak?" Yuzuka asked in english. The bartender paused, flicking his gaze towards them to linger a moment. When he went back to him without a comment he signed under his breath.

Once their orders were taken Bindl took a spot next to Aice and Yuzuka, the latter pressed against the wall. Across from him Hibiki and Marimo made themselves comfortable with Shizuku stuck between them, both restraining themselves as the youngest of their number kept twisting her neck in wonder. Silence reigned until he exhaled slowly.

"So..."

"This place smells good." Shizuka spoke up, her legs kicking under the table based on her wobble.

"It does. I haven't had meat in so long..." Aice shook her head with a delighted sigh.

"Not since that bonus they served on the Lexington at Oran." Yuzuka smirked at her rolling her eyes. "Still, whatever's here has to be better than corn or rice. Might even beat that brown sugar Marimo-chan got a while back-" she flinched when the eldest woman rapped a knuckle on the table.

"Don't say it. Not even here." she warned, sitting up to meet his curious gaze. "In a food crisis, the black market is a serious crime, and as the Americans say I'm still on thin ice."

"Over sugar? That seems rather draconian." Bindl frowned, raising his brow.

She leaned back to cross her arms. "Not so much the crime itself, but it's an excuse to end my probation."

"Probation? Wait, but aren't you a..." he didn't finish, becoming aware of the pained looks on the others.

Hibiki cleared his throat. "A few months back Jinguuji-san was accused of ration embezzlement. She lost her command and was thrown in jail, without even a trial. The only thing that got her out was the expedition to here."

"Yeah, that's what happened." Marimo said; something about the way she spoke however cast doubt on that, although he wasn't sure why. The disbelieving expressions of the others may have been the reason. "They asked me if I wanted to rot in an Oahu prison or risk gods know what with the Bridge experiments."

"I see..." Bindl nodded slowly, trying to loosen his frown to no avail.

"We volunteered to come with her." Aice interjected quickly.

"Yeah, she's our leader. Its not right to stay behind while she risks herself." Yuzuka declared, Shizuku nodding vigorously in agreement.

Bindl remembered his trainees in the One Forty Ninth, wondering how they were progressing before he dismissed the thought. "What did you command before?"

"The First Tactical Armored Regiment." Hibiki answered for her, his voice brimming with pride. "Its one of the most renowned in the entire military. They have the best equipment and the best training, before and after the Day. They're Japan's answer to the Marine Force Recon, or the Thirteenth Dragoons."

"Dragoons?" he repeated quizzically, tilting his head in mild surprise.

"Yeah, they're the French army's best. You heard of them?" Aice replied with a raised brow.

"Not your version, but I know about the Dragoon regiment. Here they're the premier... Light Infantry, yes, that's the english term I think. Entry into the regiment is a gateway into the special forces community, but even making it in is prestigious enough." he explained. "I almost joined them years ago." Bindl admitted, giving the back of his neck a scratch.

Marimo exchanged a glance with Hibiki, and he to Shizuku and Aice. Whatever was between them passed, and Yuzuka rolled her shoulders.

"You did?" she asked genially. He sensed there was something wrong, but he decided to go on rather than raise the issue.

"Well, not exactly." he scratched the palm of his hand and groaned. "About eight years ago I made the selection process, joined a class of a hundred other soldiers. Only half of them were meant to pass. I made it the whole way." Bindl's faint pride sunk with his expression. "But during my final course in Cypress, I... I got food poisoning." he glanced away, huffing to himself. "Something wrong with the rations. But the medics claimed it was an allergic reaction to a local plant on the island. It wasn't my fault, but the board still dropped me."

"I'm sorry." Marimo said softly, nodding without taking her eyes off him.

"Thank you. But that was years ago." he nodded, creasing his brow. "Are you alright with what happened to you?"

"If the military wasn't so shorthanded I would've been executed, so overall, yes." she replied with a glance around the place, ignoring the winces from her companions. "As is, I'm being reassigned to the reserves now. My frontline days are over."

"They are?" Bindl felt no small measure of surprise... and a flash of internal pain.

_"On all official records, you will be noted as being onboard that ship for the duration of the battle. Your actions will be attributed to Major Sieghart, he'll be receiving the Iron Cross for bravery in two days, as well as holding a memorial service for the men who's lives you ended. All hundred and fifty of them. In six months you will be discharged with an enlisted man's pension, you will not be qualified for military benefits whatsoever. You will not command a combat unit again. And lastly, you will sign a non disclosure agreement that will prohibit you from speaking out against the narrative. Disobeying any of these terms is grounds to be summarily executed under the military code of justice."_

_Smilas leaned back, arms crossed with his gaze staying on Bindl's wincing form. Above the lights flickered from an oddly frequent micro-quake, casting long shadows on his face._

_"For this paltry cost, you will keep your freedom. Does this sound acceptable to you?" he posed dryly, the play of light over his stony expression revealing nothing but a foreboding glare_.

Bindl took a breath to focus on the here and now. Later he could figure out what he was going to do, but for the time being he was in a Biergarten with guests.

Well, guests and other patrons; he spied a pair of girls nearby meandering from the bar to a table, a short green haired girl in a red sundress handling a staggering companion in a blue and white dirndl, who was laughing as she nearly tripped over her own feet. When she wrenched herself upright he saw she was maybe seventeen, her practically albino tint currently split by a slack grin.

"YA inoplanetyanin, gugl perevodchik otstoy." she slurred, then doubled over to laugh. Her sundress friend flashed a scowl, insistently dragging her to a nearby table hosting a pair of boys, one tall and clad in a black ensemble, and the other looking like a farmhand in his slacks and button up shirt, the latter cringing at the inebriated girl coming perilously close to meeting the floor face first.

Bindl felt eyes boring into him when he glanced to Marimo's dry expression. "I'm sorry, usually there aren't any drunks at this hour."

Shizuku said something in Japanese, causing all her comrades to nod warily. Aice in particular cleared her throat. "Well, we are in a bar..."

"I don't need to tell you that alcohol is off the menu." Marimo stated neutrally, making Bindl cough into a fist.

"Of course, I wasn't planning on it. I don't drink anyway." he said quickly with his hands waving.

He was spared embarrassment by the cook returning, his arms laden by dishes. A powerful odor emanated from them, one that grew overwhelming when the plates were laid in front of them, clattering one after the other before he summarily withdrew.

"Is it..." Hibiki gingerly picked up a knife, poking the slab of seasoned steak in front of him as if he wasn't sure it were real. Yuzuka switched between her dumpling stew and salad with raw disbelief, while Aice inspected her sausage and sauerkraut with mistrustful hope. Marimo herself eyed her liver meatloaf, her expression flickering repeatedly with her sniffing. The only one without hesitation was Shizuku, who all bit squealed as she bit a chunk off a Rostbratwurst to lean back, shivering with her eyes closed as she chewed.

"Sugoi!" she whined happily through a mouthful of food.

Bindl poked at his own schnitzel as they tore into the chow, finding himself somewhat disturbed; the fare here was good, if a bit greasy by his standards, but they ate like it was heavenly manna. He frowned a little when he remembered the descriptions given of their Earth, especially when footage circulated on the news a couple weeks back. Seeing that plain of billowing salt around a ruined city, he thought they called it Los Angeles, still made him involuntarily shiver.

Minutes later Marimo opened her eyes as she slumped back from her empty plate, sighing happily. "Gomen-ne, uh, sorry. I haven't had meat this good in years."

"No it's fine." Bindl waved off, having not even finished his schnitzel yet.

"This is great." Aice commented with her last bite of the side dish.

"Hai!" Shizuku agreed happily when she slumped back from her empty plate.

"Ah wow, I don't think I can stomach that food plant sludge ever again." Yuzuka said before slurping up on the last of her stew.

"I thought fresh corn was great. I never realized how much I'd miss this after the Day." Hibiki mumbled once he set his utensils down, letting out a hiccup that made him blush.

Bindl waited until they wolfed down most of their meal, washing it down with iced water, and pushed his plate up a few centimeters. "Actually, do you mind if I ask a question?"

"Sure, go ahead." Aice invited with a lazy wave.

"I've heard the term be used a lot, but what exactly was the Day? I've gathered that it was a disaster..." Bindl trailed off.

Immediately the upbeat attitudes vanished, their light smiles disappearing before his eyes. Each one glanced away from him, Yuzuka flashing a pained wince as Hibiki took a breath, his palm unmistakably shivering. Shizuku glanced between them in worry, taking Aice's hand when she offered it, squeezing tightly with poorly restrained frowns on both.

Marimo sighed, laying a cool stare on his uneasy expression. "I suppose you would want to know."

"If its that bad then-" he tried to backpedal, going silent when she shook her head.

"No, it's alright. I'll tell you." she said, sparing a peek at the others. They showed anxiety, but no dissent at her apparent plan.

Marimo took a breath before leaning back, sparing a peek around for eavesdroppers. When none were found she locked her flat gaze upon his stilled form.

"The Day was February Twenty Third, two years ago now. Formally it was a UN led affair named Operation Babylon. It was the largest single military undertaking in human history, a counterattack on the BETA on every front. The full might of mankind was unleashed in one global offensive." she began solemnly.

"Every front? But didn't the BETA control all of Eurasia?" Bindl frowned, receiving a nod.

"They did. From the British Isles to the Gulf of Aden, Kamchatka to Malaysia, Suez to Sri Lanka to Japan, every place the front was, we attacked." Marimo rolled her shoulders, rising once before slumping. "Of course, there was no way such an assault would succeed on its own. Not after almost thirty years of fighting. That's why Babylon was preceded by strikes on every Hive by prototype weapons built by America, called G-bombs." she leaned forward, dropping her volume. "They were made with material retrieved from BETA Hives."

"Wait really?" he blurted out before composing himself. "How does that work?"

"I don't know, I don't think even its creators knew exactly what they built. But BETA produce rare materials in their Hives called G-elements, stuff that defies conventional science. Materials that alter gravity, room temperature superconductors, negative mass, it left the scientific community salivating to find out more. Naturally, the Americans took some and turned it into a bomb." Marimo rolled her shoulders, sighing under her breath. "Six years ago they used two on Yokohama."

Bindl opened his mouth, but no words came out. The sheer incredulity of that statement kept him from properly replying.

"That was during the BETA invasion of Japan." Hibiki supplied somberly. "I was a few sectors from Yokohama then, flying in a Kagerou squadron. Seeing the explosion was… I don't know how to explain it."

"Same. Seeing a massive blast on the horizon, and the BETA horde just disintegrate after nothing else stopped them for months is, just-" Yuzuka closed her eyes, balling her fists.

"The Americans didn't give more than a few minutes warning, and so thousands of soldiers died, along with tens of thousands of refugees who barely escaped the invasion. It also completely halted the BETA vanguard in its tracks, quite possibly saving Japan from suffering the fate of the rest of Eurasia. It was the first true victory in the entire war. If that was worth all those lives or not, that's up to you to decide." she shrugged, narrowing her gaze when she turned away. "The Americans thought that was the war winning solution mankind needed. And through the old UN, they pushed a plan through. Alternative Five."

"Uh, Marimo-chan..." Hibiki warned, grimacing while she sighed.

"Its a little pointless to keep it classified now." she said softly, adding something in Japanese that seemed to calm the others, but not by much. "I was involved in the program right before it, Alternative Four. Its how I know all this. Under them I ran a trainee squad as part of the old UN, they..."

A shuddering breath left her, which subsided when Shizuku took her hand to squeeze. After shaking her head, she lifted her gaze to meet his again, blinking away her glossy eyes.

"Before the operation was carried out, the UN built a fleet of colony ships to send two hundred thousand people off to space, to a planet they thought was habitable. They're still a few years from reaching their destination I think, if it's viable. After that the Americans used their entire G-bomb arsenal in the counterattack." she rolled her shoulders, balling up fists by her plate.

"What went wrong?" Bindl asked grimly.

"What went wrong, now that's a tricky question. But technically speaking nothing did, each target Hive was successfully hit by the bombs." she shook her head prior to gazing at the ceiling. "I wonder if the Americans knew what the effects of mass G-bombing would cause. If they did, they either didn't think it was likely, or decided it was worth ending the war. Either way, what happened was the consequence of detonating many gravity altering bombs across the planet simultaneously: the entire Earth was warped."

"Oceanic inversion." Aice spoke up, shaking when she let out a hissing exhale. "I saw it happen in orbit, right before my pod went dark. All that blue sweeping over the brown and green, leaving just white behind, changing up the map before my eyes. It didn't seem real. Honestly, it still doesn't."

"Yuzuka and I were part of an IJA expeditionary force attached to an American unit in Britain, right before the Day. After we lost contact, we set sail back for the mainland. Few days tidal waves swallowed the Isles." Hibiki explained slowly, unresponsive when Yuzuka took his hands, her features wrinkling at him.

"Lot of quakes back home then. Everyone scared." Shizuku said quietly.

"Africa, Europe, Asia, and Alaska were swallowed up by the oceans shifting. South America from Yucatán to Antarctica was pushed out of the atmosphere's habitable layer, went from livable to a moonscape in a day. Over five hundred million people lived on the continent before. A recon expedition a couple months later brought in a few hundred from a coastal bunker." Marimo went on, her voice now devoid of emotion at the blood draining from his expression. "After that, earthquakes and tsunamis swept over much of the North American coasts, then the shifting atmosphere blew salt storms across most of the continent, as far inland as the Midwest. Heard an official estimate that over a hundred million people died from all that."

"I think they were the lucky ones, they went quickly. A lot of people from the east coast got through, and they-" Yuzuka halted to squeeze Hibiki's hand tighter, the silent boy's eyes now glazed over. "The Americans and Canadians had a lot of citizens left in those regions, but they're... they're beyond saving. Everyone has their breaking point." she closed her mouth when Shizuku took Hibiki's forearm, and Aice planted a hand on her shoulder.

Bindl was pale, paler than any other point in his life. The story of Europe's fall, recorded devastation they offered before, even clips of gun cam footage showing those squirming abominations, none of it compared to the tale he heard now. What was worse than the content itself was the blank look in Marimo's eyes; they were unfocused, vacant, as if she wasn't able to process what she was speaking.

"That's..." was all he could say.

"Horrible? Yes, it was." Marimo nodded slowly. "And less than a month after the oceans settled, a stranded American carrier was attacked by a roving BETA herd, and was completely wiped out except for one survivor. You met her actually, Lieutenant Kjellberg."

"The-the BETA survived that? How?" he leaned forward to demand, jaw hanging open.

"They're tougher than we thought they were." Hibiki replied in an empty tone.

"They built a Hive on the carrier's remains, we destroyed it just a few months ago. Doing that bought us time, but everyone knows the BETA are still out there, waiting." Yuzuka nodded slowly.

"We brought G-Elements from the Hive's center before it was annihilated, and less than a month later I was visited in my cell with an offer: risk my life in an experiment that could potentially save what was left of mankind, or eat a bullet." Marimo finished, slumping back. "That answer your question?"

Taking a shuddering breath, Bindl inadvertently flinched when the huge bartender returned, rolling his shoulders when he deposited a slip of paper by his hand. He gave it a once over without reading it, still trying to wrap his head around everything she told him.

The bartender however grunted. "Don't give me that look, property taxes are through the roof nowadays. I can barely keep this place afloat even at these prices. Damn that war, and damn this recession."

"Ah, yeah. Hang on." Bindl withdrew his wallet and rifled through for cash, unable to muster the right feeling. He should've been irate at the bill, should've be thinking of showing them around Regensburg, any number of things.

But now all he wanted to do was to visit St. Peters Cathedral. Visit, and pray.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: so, this took a while. If you stuck around for this long, I appreciate it.**

_One week later.._.

A sigh of relief escaped Bindl when he entered the building, finally leaving behind the sweltering noontime day. On the Mediterranean coastline the climate was usually mild, if a little humid at times. But this location deep within Algeria was an entirely different story; El Oued was a sand filled oven, resting at a searing thirty six with a promise of getting worse. Without any clouds or water bodies in the area, there was nothing to moderate the temperature, and once nightfall came things would swing far in the other direction. It couldn't be more different than pleasant Greece or calm Tunisia, where he passed through on his winding road beginning in Munich. This really was a desolate place, a far cry from the generous concession zones the news spoke of, whether for good or ill.

Hitching a ride on a supply convoy showed him firsthand, picking a VBL instead of being forced to ride in a cargo laden TRM; a perk of his rank while it lasted. His driver was a taciturn sort, giving him a salute and speaking nothing for the long road from Algiers to El Oued. The turret operator was otherwise too busy watching for threats to chat, as odd as that seemed. His only response to the question of "what threats?" was a simplistic "new directive from North African Command." Then he saw the New Springfield Resettlement Zone, and gained a sinking feeling of what they meant.

The first sign that things were wrong was the front gate: it was a heavily guarded checkpoint, all four lanes possessing dividers each, and protected by not only a full rifle platoon plus their vehicles, but including a pair of squat Gardmares in desert paint. Bindl gave those machines a wary look when they were stopped; although they were technically Europe's first production KMF, their performance was so lacking that the military retired them within a year, with several going to larger metropolitan police departments as anti-riot platforms. Seeing them here was a bad sign. And so was seeing a cargo truck in an outbound lane beside him being searched, revealing a quartet of soldiers wrestling a screaming woman in filthy rags out from the back. His processing finished in time for him to see the guards slam her face first onto the hot soil, her pained cries captivating his disturbed gaze.

Once inside the settlement, things failed to improve. While he saw a second solar panel tower looming over the stumpy landscape, the town itself remained much as he saw it last; newer wooden buildings dotted the boulevards, the ramshackle construction looking to be made of scrap or unfinished wood. They were vastly outnumbered by the now disheveled temporary prefabs, though he saw plenty of signs of personalization amongst them, such as rough paint or hung up blankets. Much like its inhabitants, a morass of busy chattering humanity moving in visible patterns he couldn't discern, a blend of ethnicities dried out by the searing heat. Almost to a man they were in a sorry state, raggedy and tightly crowded like the largest of metropolitan areas. Or the slums infesting the coastline.

Nevertheless he saw plenty of activity; a makeshift park around what little greenery was planted here, an open market of shopkeepers hacking whatever wares that were on display, even an informal gathering around a small party of people, what he realized were a musical group playing a song. And alongside the good, the bad: not one pedestrian gave his tiny convoy a pleased look. Many averted their gazes, while the rest cast dark stares upon the Europeans, boring holes in them until they were out of sight. The only distraction he witnessed was a mugging occurring in broad daylight, nearby a distribution center. He turned to bark an order to stop, but in the couple seconds that took it was over, both victim and perpetrator vanishing into the crowd.

What truly cinched things was the EU liaison center on the edge of town, his destination. A place where officials and experts from the European heartlands would help transform this place, turning it from a run down slum into a vital part of the Union, where teachers, lawyers, and aid workers toiled to help these refugees. A place beset by a crowd of people waving signs and yelling, watched carefully by guards in riot gear, what had to be unbearable in this heat.

In the span from leaving his ride and going inside, he heard a rhythmic chant starting up from the group. The english words set him on edge, more than anything else he'd seen thus far.

"We are not trash! We are not trash! We are not trash!" went the protestors. It was a sight that spoke of severe mismanagement, what the news had said nothing about, and neither did his transfer papers; was this recent? Or...

That was a thought Bindl shelved when he approached the front desk, travel duffel with his spare uniforms and work related items (mainly his computer tablet) around his shoulder, plus a briefcase in hand. Nothing else; no BDUs, body armor, not even a service rifle. He felt uneasy at being so under equipped, but this posting was far away from the front lines, meaning it should be safe. He felt no serenity at that fact.

Upon detecting his arrival one of the uniformed clerks rose to his feet, the overweight soldier delivering then holding a salute until he returned it. Much different to his counterparts at their computer stations, who peered towards him but didn't stand.

"Private. I'm Captain Bindl, I have an appointment with Major Katczinky?" he began, sweeping his head; the largely standard office setup for the Liaison Center held very few people, a worrisome sign for such an important location.

"Yes sir, you're on time. Major Katczinky is down that hall, three doors to the right." he pointed towards an adjacent wing. "He'll be expecting you sir."

"Thank you. Carry on." Bindl nodded and strode towards the indicated direction, forcing himself not to glance back upon hearing an audible sigh of relief. That combined with what he saw on the way in, gave him resolve to find out all he could from the CO.

Approaching the indicated door, he heard a buzz of conversation from behind the wooden barrier. The closer he came the more he could make out, recognizing the speech as english once he was a body's length away. A little puzzling he admitted, but the majority of the population here spoke that language exclusively, and this was the liaison center for the New Springfield Resettlement Zone after all. It would take years for french to integrate into the new inhabitants, as was required of Union members; until then his english skills would have to suffice. Although what greeted him outside hinted things weren't going to be that simple.

In the meantime he paused outside the office, assuming that the Major was in a meeting. A reasonable hypothesis, one to which he was quickly disabused of by a screeching bellow, emanating acrimony to a degree he had rarely witnessed.

"What is this bullshit!?"

Alarm had him fling open the door before he realized what he was doing, in time to see a wad of papers be scattered across a plain desk. A chair was knocked back as an older man in a ripped flannel and thick overalls slammed his fists on the metal top, flicking spittle from his now purple wrinkled face. He apparently didn't notice the newcomer, nor did he appear to heed a young redheaded woman in ratty clothes tugging on his arm.

"I wasted two goddamn weeks for that damn permit, now you're telling me I can't buy fertilizer or equipment? How the hell am I supposed to get anything growing here!?" he snarled to the man seated behind the desk. His english possessed an odd twang, making his brusque tone harder to understand than usual.

Clad in beige fatigues, a fortyish man with wispy blond hair sat unmoving, his expression calm and measured. Neither his guest's rage nor the girl's pensive look affected his statuesque exterior.

"Mister Buford, please sit." he replied in rough english.

Buford punched the desk again. "I've waited a month for this goddamn paperwork to clear, now you're gonna tell me I can't farm!? You expect us to keep living off your handouts forever!?"

"Of course not. But you were told repeatedly that the soil here isn't suited for growing corn." he smoothly replied.

"I can make it grow whatever I need. Hell, I made my pa's old homestead able to feed a quarter of Lincoln after salt storms ruined the state. But I need equipment, and I need fertilizer." Buford snapped.

"Dad, please." the girl tried to defuse, and for that she was shoved away.

"It's not that simple Mister Buford." Katczinsky tried to defuse.

"What, you mean those tree hugging environmental regs? Who gives a shit about some vultures when folk are starving? There's a hundred thousand people here and counting, how long are those charity donations gonna last, huh?" Buford stood up, scoffing. "Hell with you, I'll find what I need on my own."

He turned away, his footstep creating a weird clanking noise. Bindl saw a visible limp in his leg, which repeated with his next step; twin prosthetics he abruptly realized. Something he dismissed when Buford discovered his presence, his already irate expression twisting into a deep scowl.

"Now you called your goons, huh." he growled.

"Dad, please." the girl hurriedly put herself between them, sparing a helpless glance at Bindl's mute form. She wasn't ugly by any stretch, but the deep lines on her face made her seem much older than what she was. "I'm terribly sorry, my father is just trying to get us back on our feet. There's no need to get violent."

"Stay out of this Melanie." Buford clanked towards him, fists balled up. Now that he saw him in detail, Bindl guessed him to be in his late fifties, his wrinkled skin practically made of leather.

Rather than risk an incident, Bindl moved out of the doorway, holding it open for them to leave. "I'm not here to..."

Buford grunted dismissively before clanking out the entrance, and with a pained sigh Melanie darted after him. Bindl let the door close behind them, wondering if he should go make sure they didn't cause further trouble.

"Well, that was something." commented the Major in french, causing Bindl to face him.

Letting out a quiet breath, he placed himself at the head of the desk and delivered a sharp salute, unable to entirely mask a frown when he received just a wave. A gesture had him place his luggage on the floor next to the chair he pulled up from where it was left, followed by him reluctantly sitting down.

"Major Katczinky, sir, I'm Captain Bindl. I've been transferred to your command." he explained quickly.

"Have you?" he pawed at a few papers spayed out on his desk, nodding after a moment. "Ah right, here. Sorry about you seeing that mess Captain, the... meeting, took longer than it should've."

"Sir." Bindl sat ramrod straight, every couple seconds moving in his seat.

Major Katczinky leaned back in his chair, retrieving a small box from his pocket, which he discovered was a recognizable pack. Just as he cracked it open he spared a peek, holding out the tiny carton.

"No sir, I don't smoke." he shook his head.

"Neither did I, it's a terrible habit." Major Katczinky flicked a lighter and brought the cigarette to his mouth, taking a long drag that swiftly filled the suddenly much too small room with a choking odor. "My wife would kill me if she found me doing this. I'm lucky she's in Łódź, any closer and she'd smell it. Hope you don't mind."

Bindl minded very much. "No sir."

He took another drag, burning up a third of the tiny stick in one breath. The resulting exhale of noxious fumes turned his stomach.

"Documents?" Major Katczinky asked.

Without a word Bindl handed over his tablet, letting him scan over the information at his leisure. Privately he hoped he wouldn't take too long, that smoke starting to make his head swim, and he feared the consequences of excusing himself early. After a moment a grunt left Major Katczinky.

"Mechanized Infantry, front line fighting unit. Mighty Panzergrenadier. And, huh, some Light Infantry training, impressive. Not a bad little record all things considered. Who'd you piss off to get sent here?" he asked conversationally.

"Sir?" Bindl frowned, feeling his guts lurch unexpectedly.

"Never mind, I won't pry." Major Katczinky pushed his belongings back. "Alright, how much do you know about law enforcement?"

"Well sir, I can subdue a suspect while unarmed, I can defend myself and others, I'm trained in basic anti-riot tactics..." Bindl listed off, but frowned when his brow narrowed.

"Nice, but what about criminal investigations? Evidence handling, interrogation methods, case management, et cetera?" he asked dourly, sighing at his expression scrunching up. "Figures. I asked for more military police, hell, police period, and they sent you. Now what about administrative duties? Filing, personnel management, that sort of stuff?"

"I can manage a company's task sir, including logistical affairs. I have experience with battalion management, and some at the brigade level." Bindl shrugged, then stopped himself.

"Great." Major Katczinky took another drag, this time he blew the smoke away from his uncomfortable form. "Bad news, you're a lot of what I don't need. Good news, you're not completely useless. Don't take that as a knock against you, but I need your skills on beat officers, people who can train others at least. You may be able to do that, but those NAC clowns in Algiers will be on my ass if you're not certified."

He went to puff more, but found his cigarette burnt down to the filter. Much to Bindl's relief he stubbed it on a nearby ashtray and didn't grab another.

"Ever since that new asshole took charge things here have been going downhill. Support for MEF refugees has dwindled to nothing, civilian rationing is stricter than ever, POW conditions are worsening, even the news is being squeezed on. I dunno what Smilas is thinking, but he's risking more riots here and in the other zones at this rate." Major Katczinky shook his head, leaning back further to gaze at the ceiling.

"Sir, another riot?" Bindl questioned rapidly, as well as internally frowning; was General Smilas actually responsible for the state of things here? The crowded settlement he faced on his way in, the teeming masses building makeshift new homes around the prefab rows, and most of all the dark looks practically every dirty refugee sent his way? He'd been in combat situations more friendly than this new EU member state.

"Few weeks back in the Nunavut zone next door to here, a couple off duty soldiers tried messing with some residents, the young and dumb sort who think wearing the uniform entitles them to some tail. One thing led to another, and a man was shot. Not fatally, but that didn't matter. Next thing I know, there's a mob trying to attack their center. Had to bust out the riot control gear for that one." Katczinky explained drolly, superficially languishing before his eyes. "Sent those dipshits to Palermo in chains, but the damage was done."

"Sir, how did things get this bad?" Bindl grimaced, unable to believe his ears. New Springfield was larger but overall in no better condition than when he last saw this place; where were the police, the aid workers, any of the help Paris claimed would be sent here? And the food distribution lines he saw, he disturbingly noted they were long enough to wrap around a block, filled with people on the verge of attacking one another.

"Because the Brass doesn't give a damn." he swiveled his chair to face him. "They're too busy squealing over those Tactic Surfer robots that are on the news, and the politicians in Paris won't let the military cede authority here. It's starting to rile up the locals, Pseudo-Brits, and Elevens alike."

In his lap Bindl clenched his fists. Even here, even now, that english word made him angry, frustrated at the racism in the command structure... he abruptly realized Major Katczinky was staring at him intently. When he raised a brow, a wry look crossed his expression.

"Is there a problem Captain?" he posed expectantly. Bindl took a deep breath.

"Sir... they're Japanese. Not Elevens. No more than these Americans are Britannians." he stated slowly.

Major Katczinky gave him a petty clap. "Fantastic, you just spared me a ten minute lecture to watch what you say. These people really don't like being called that, especially the Americans. Before we bungled up management here, they had a few demonstrations against Britannia, although what they did was nothing compared to the Shin-Kanto zone. That's the Japanese settlement next door, between the Nunavut and Springfield area, it's the second furthest after the New Opportunity zone. Speaking of, do you know any Jap?"

"Just a couple words sir, my english is far better." Bindl replied while trying to loosen himself up. He sensed he passed the worst of it, but who knew what else this Major would do?

"Show me." Katczinky waved.

"Understood, ah." He cleared his throat. "I've been getting more practice lately, sir." he answered in a rough accent.

"Not bad, not bad." Katczinky nodded, his english words marginally better pronounced than his. "Get comfortable with english, you'll be using it a lot."

Bindl opened his mouth, debated for a second, then finished in english. "Yes sir."

Katczinky nodded again, in time for his desktop phone to start ringing. Waving at him, he plucked the device from its cradle and hit an icon, peering at the digital display when it clicked.

"Major Katczinky speaking. Yes? Mm-hm, really." he said in french, ignoring Bindl's silent gesture to step outside for privacy. "Of course. Wave them through. Yes I know, no I don't care. Just tell me, well I don't give a damn about classified, tell me where they departed from." he snatched up a notepad and began jotting. "Six vehicles, two robots, from... Groom Lake? What's the cargo? Naturally. Now make sure they get to the American fort."

After hanging up he sent him an expectant look, prompting another cleared throat. "Sir?"

"Business with the portal disembarkation area, about five klicks that way." Katczinky gestured to a seemingly random direction. "You'll probably visit it at some point, we're shorthanded on personnel in every department. If you're lucky you'll be assigned to humanitarian work on the other side."

"Other side? High Command is sending our people to that world?" Bindl raised a brow, unable to mask his surprise.

"For now. It's mainly medical aid and engineers, helping ease their relocation. There's about a thousand personnel in the places they call Hawaii and Quebec. Don't jump to volunteer though, by all accounts conditions there are awful. A hundred troops have already contracted lung diseases from all the salt dust. At this rate it won't be too much longer before Smilas withdraws all support." Major Katczinky's expression darkened. "Rumors claim one of our recon units encountered those aliens the NUN countries fought. Whatever happened, Paris classified it quicker than anything I've ever seen."

"I see sir." Bindl nodded slowly, hiding his frown. He couldn't help thinking of Marimo's words from weeks ago, the look in her group's eyes; they were downright haunted by what they experienced.

Shaking off his thoughts, he straightened up in his seat. "Sir, where shall I be staying?"

An hour later Bindl closed a door behind him, dismissing his escort private without a second look. That done he placed his duffel by the bunk's feet and took stock of the tiny room, estimating it to be maybe twelve square meters, just large enough for a small desk and a thin bed. The grey walls and a single light fixture made it seem like a prison cell, a feeling that a tiny window only enhanced. It had every appearance of being a prefab, set up in minutes and left alone afterwards.

Inhaling deeply, Bindl set his belongings at the foot of the bunk, went back to check the door, and with a tired groan he collapsed into an undignified lump on the stiff bed. He let his eyes peer at the plain ceiling and sighed.

"This is how my career ends."

Ten years of service, six tours, an officer's commission, degrees in history, theology, and mathematics, thirty combat situations under his belt. He made it to the finalist course of the most grueling training the regular army had to offer. He played a minor yet noteworthy role in a defining moment of Union history, witnessing an event that could change the world. A decade of his life, his entire twenties, given to Europe to defend it from all its foes.

And now he was here. A glorified clerk in a backwater posting, undersupplied and undermanned, winding down the days until he would be discharged without fanfare. He was willing to lay down his life for the Union, and he was being kicked out with nary a thanks.

Bindl sat up to work his stiff arm, asking himself the all important question: what next?

Education seemed like a decent career path he thought. His earnings would be a pittance compared to his officer's salary, but there was always a demand for teachers. It wouldn't be that different to his day to day affairs, particularly if he was lucky enough to land a university professorship like his younger brother, a physicist in Munich's top institute. Good pay, fulfilling work, respect from his peers, and depending on where he ended up a nice location compared to the desert or jungles he usually toured in. It could work out. Failing that, he could always try for the clergy, as he thought about when he was young.

"Scheiße." Bindl grumbled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Face it, this is bad."

He peered towards the window next, features wrinkling. For even this far away, through a window no less, he heard the faint protests from the front entrance. The refugees here were in a poor state, and evidently were furious about it.

Just how had things gotten so bad? Both halves of Parliament, the Council of Forty and the Hall of the People, passed bills to an overwhelming majority to aid the New United Nations, several of the major parties working together to thwart the LEDES restriction measures. President Laval drafted several executive orders to help despite him being aligned to LEDES, what the media claimed was an overstep of his authority. Charity drives from Lisbon to Kiev gathered vast resources, rival organizations putting aside differences for the greater good. Yet the settlement zone was still a shoddy mess. How was that possible?

Bindl steadied himself, coming to a decision. His military career was facing its terminus, but he was still an officer; he vowed to use what time he had to do as much good as possible. He wryly noted that he no longer needed to worry about angering his superiors, he was already at the end of his rope anyway.

"Well then, time to see what I can do." he smiled.

Line break

Day one.

Bindl sat down at his new station, a computer monitor and a stack of paperwork placed on a desk. Personnel filing was on his schedule for today, managing soldier affairs and supply requests.

"Right, let's go." he busied himself immediately, within seconds halting at the two hundred documents in the inbox. That made him frown; the 149th's lower echelons were never this backed up, Colonel Alvaro was punctilious to a fault when it came to his brigade's management.

Rolling his shoulders, Bindl cracked his knuckles and went to work.

Day two.

"Done." Bindl leaned back a little, feeling tired yet triumphant at his completion. The bane of his existence was vanquished, now he could start doing good. He was going to exploit his authority to the limit for this.

Ding.

His brow creased when another bundle of documents loaded, consisting of more requisition orders. Stuff for fertilizer, construction equipment, medical equipment, even an irrigation system.

He nodded. "Finally, there's some-"

Ding.

Another page loaded, one filled with complaints. Of soldiers requesting transfers, civilian contractors protesting military interference, and status update questions regarding why deliveries had been delayed. Questions ranged from polite to a curse filled tirade that took him aback.

"Alright, that first." he frowned.

Ding.

Day five.

"Can't ship it, why?" Bindl demanded into his phone. "It's only three tons altogether, any Transall can, no, I'm talking about the greenhouse equipment. This doesn't need the geology report-yes I know the environment isn't good. It's a greenhouse, we get these set up and... hello?" he stopped to look at his phone. "He hung up on me?"

Day eight.

Bindl resisted the urge to let his forehead hit his desk. "I already told your associate, Märchen will not be allowed to open a factory here. Yes I know you're an executive. Yes I spoke to the CFO. I'll refer you to my commanding officer."

He transferred the line and rubbed his temples. Of all companies trying to access the New Springfield labor market, a toy factory was the first to jump. He didn't like gazing at a couple windows he opened on his monitor, a website slowly loaded courtesy of the Eurocom grid; a bout of curiosity showed that Märchen had both a record for unsafe labor practices and military connections.

When his phone rang again he wearily picked it up.

"Hello, ah." he switched to english. "Mister Nicolas, I'm afraid I don't have any further updates. McDaell Doglam still needs to-yes, the reps from Mitsuhishi and Dass-ault have already contacted me. None have gotten any approval for investment, I'm sorry." he closed his eyes at saying that. He'd apologized a lot over the past few days, too much.

Although the investment part wasn't quite true, as he discovered after a relayed phone call from Algiers. Thanks to a ponderously loaded search he found that Aeritalia Aerospace group held a press conference recently, where the CEO all but spelled out that the EU's largest aircraft manufacturer wanted to buy up all of the New United Nation's TSF manufacturers, before Krauss-Maffei Wegmann (the EU's largest single defense contractor, and creator of the Panzer-Hummel) could do the same. Both wanted to have control of a potentially lucrative military provider outside of their influence. The top prizes weren't immediately obvious, but upon some basic research he saw their goal; the third generation TSFs that gave the NUN countries their edge.

Day nine.

"Defeat at Cairo: a joint EU/NUN operation to liberate the Egyptian Mandate's capital was repulsed by the Britannian Fifth Army, under the direct command of Princess Cornelia Li Britannia, freshly arrived from Area Eleven. Casualty figures have yet to be released, but experts claim this represents a reversal of fortunes on the frontlines. Unconfirmed reports have arrived which indicate a Knight of the Round, Britannia's greatest knight order, may have played a role as well."

Bindl's hands froze above his station. Slowly he peered towards the television mounted on the wall, placed high enough so that even a dozen clerks crowding it didn't obstruct his view.

On screen several TSFs came in for a landing, what he now recognized as Eagles and Tornadoes in sloppy beige paint. Four machines were on screen, battered and plastered by carbon scoring when they roughly landed on a desert airfield, what the caption claimed to be at the recently liberated El Alamein base.

"The hell? Those things were kicking ass, what happened?"

"Bet some of their guys screwed up."

"Dumbass, command is responsible. Leave it to the generals to fumble at the finish line."

Bindl was tempted to give those desk jockeys a dressing down, but he was too floored to properly muster his thoughts. The War Princess was back at the front; only once had he been on the other side of the battlefield as Cornelia, a year ago when the 149th was deployed to the Egyptian Mandate. Although it pained him to admit it, her soldiers were as skilled as the Panzergrenadiers, perhaps better. Under her leadership, they launched multiple blitzes that hammered his brigade, badly enough that they were withdrawn from the front. Replacement troops were still settling in when the 149th fought in North Africa, leading to his fateful patrol that day.

Instead of fighting, he was trapped behind a desk, feeling his soul leech away. All the while, the crowds outside were getting larger.

Day twelve.

"Would you marry me Kimi? Make me the happiest man in the world?"

Called away from his monotonous job at last, Bindl frowned at the jail cell he faced. Summoned to help with processing, he stared uneasily at the eleven prisoners; men and women ranging from eighteen to sixty, all showing the same vacant looks and relaxed demeanors, completely at odds with their neglected conditions.

"My boy is coming home next month. Guam is nice and safe, but Jeffry has no business in that heat." a middle aged woman babbled happily.

"Good harvest this year, my cider will be the best in Wisconsin." an older man smiled in joy.

"Oh yeah, Georgetown here I come. Best field manager in California for sure." a man in his thirties proclaimed with a pumped fist.

Bindl swiveled to an MP finishing up his report. "What's wrong with them?"

"This new drug that came out of China last year, its street name is Refrain." the duty officer told him, grunting while manhandling an unaware laughing woman into a cell. "It's a psychotropic compound, hits you with a load of dopamine and other gunk. Makes you relive your memories like they just happened."

Bindl was surprised; he heard of similar stuff used for interrogation use, but for a common narcotic? "It seems potent."

"It is. This shit is huge over in East Asia, especially in Area Eleven. I heard that's where most of its heading. But the Golden Triangle has been shipping it over here too lately. Buncha bums." he concluded with a kick at the bars that accomplished nothing. In contrast he gave them a look that was equal parts disdain and pity; drug users were a category he looked down on, but with the conditions outside, how could he truly judge them? This place was purgatory.

"He's okay mom." Bindl stopped, his breath catching at the familiar voice. Hanging near the back of the drugged up crowd stood that woman from the other day, still with a face which was prematurely aged, but now showing a soft smile aimed at a wall. "Terry just has a little sniffle, it's nothing to get worked up over. He'll be good as new on his birthday, you'll see. When Rick gets back from Yukon in October we'll have a big family outing, whaddya say?" Melanie Buford asked gently.

Bindl mentally counted his finances. His bank account was about to shrink considerably, as was his spare time. But he wasn't going to stand by and let this happen.

Day fourteen.

Wake up. Fatigues on. Bland breakfast and sour coffee. Shuffling to his workstation. He no longer consciously thought for this, he was too burned out by the tedium. Another day of drudgery, mind numbing paperwork that ate at his dwindling life. More and more he wondered if he hadn't died and gone to purgatory. And for all the good he accomplished, what little he did made effectively no difference.

Bindl's state was broken by an alarm, needing a couple seconds to realize he ducked behind the desk for cover. Shaking his head, he stood up to see a few MPs striding inside the offices in full body armor, visors up and looking grim. Whatever odd glances the clerks gave him evaporated at the sight of them.

"Captain sir, I need you to come with me. Major Katczinky's orders." the man told him without halting.

Bindl was on the way before he even grasped what was happening, stopping by the armory to get fitted into heavy stab resistant gear and grabbing a beanbag shotgun, prior to being quickly shoved into an APC. Only then did it occur to him that something was wrong, it had to be serious if he were personally summoned.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

"Riot in the Eleven town sir, all the liaison centers are being called in." yelled a trooper over the engine.

As much as Bindl desired to chew him out for that, the APC shuddering to a halt prevented him. When the hatch opened he piled out into the boiling daylight, his senses assaulted by the gritty hot air, the heat waves shimmering so closely, and the thunderous crowds so close by.

Shaking his head, he first saw a prefab street much like New Springfield, only the decorations on the homes were different. That and the two huge crowds gathered a dozen meters from each other, consisting of Japanese citizens screaming at each other. At first glance he saw no distinction between the two, but after a few seconds he spotted a glaring cue: one side had far fewer adult men in their crowd, as well as more flags on poles being waved insistently. The other held more elderly people, but were no less furious.

Locating Major Katczinky took time he didn't have, he was difficult to spot in full regalia. Once Bindl did he jogged over, catching a sour look being directed his way when he shoved passed the formed ranks of riot police, shields up and batons ready.

"About time!" he barked, gesturing at the conflagration. "Time to prove you actually knew what you were talking about."

Before Bindl could reply a raggedly uniformed Japanese constable darted up to him, wincing at the cries that followed him and the glares of the Europeans as he roughly presented himself.

"Sir, I'm officer Takeda of the police department!" he yelled in badly accented french.

"The hells going on here?" Katczinky demanded, glaring at the furious crowds. Any second they could erupt into violence, what Bindl immediately saw they weren't prepared for. Not without something like... a familiar rumbling from behind him, slowly gazing around to discover a Gardmare rolling up between the APCs. That could stop this riot in its tracks, killing God knew how many people in the process.

"Sir, there was a demonstration earlier, they-" Takeda pointed to the far side. "Wanted to raise support to travel to Japan right now, while they-" he switched to the other. "Wanted not to. The Imperials forced things to this state, they said the Shogun's orders are absolute."

"Imperials?" Katczinky grimaced.

"Hai sir, erm, wei! They're from the Empire, these people are from the Republic." Takeda yelled.

A new chanting started up, a pattern of words he wished he could understand. But what was obvious was where it was coming from: the older crowd yelling at their counterparts, beginning to stomp their feet on the packed soil.

"Sir!" Bindl yelled to Katczinky, spotting the tanned constable stiffening.

"Now what're they saying?" he had to shout over the noise. Takeda gulped.

"Sir, the Republic Japanese are... it means..." Drowned out in the noise, Bindl shoved closer to read his lips.

"Go home foreigner."

That was when the first stone was thrown, though Bindl didn't see where it came from. What mattered was the aftermath. In retrospect he wished he knew, despite knowing it didn't matter.

The crowds rushed towards each other, colliding in a crashing wave of twisted bodies and cries, creating a messy brawl worse than anything he ever saw before. One that wasn't limited to their dispute, when both sides surged towards the European lines. Angry, beyond reason, lashing out with all the fury of the worst protests in Paris history.

Bindl had no real choice in the matter; he raised his weapon and shot the first protestor in the stomach, seeing the beanbag round knock him back with a cry. A pump of the slide readied him again, joining the phalanx in advancing no matter how many rocks or items rained off their thick shields. Skulls were cracked, bones broken, and when melee failed to get the Japanese to disperse, dozens of lobbed canisters spilling whitish smoke did the trick. The tear gas stung at his watering eyes when some wafted his way, slowing him while the rest kept moving in. It wasn't that bad overall, but he lost any will to keep going.

This wasn't what he signed up for. He didn't follow in his elder brother's footsteps, willing to defend Europe from all threats, just to beat down angry refugees in the middle of the desert. It was wrong.

Without being fully aware of events, he returned to an APC and left the still unruly Shin-Kanto zone behind. Once he ripped off his helmet he leaned back to groan, eyes squeezed shut and hand pawing at his neck. He prayed for forgiveness after what he had done, regretting not doing anything to diffuse the situation.

"You too?"

Bindl flopped his head to the side, forcing himself to sit up when he saw Katczinky's droll expression. "Sir, I-"

"No, I get it. Don't be proud of this Captain." he swept his gaze around the vehicle's interior, finding the rest of the men in a similar state. "For god's sake, we're supposed to be helping these people. But no, those pricks up there, they don't give a shit."

"The North African Command, sir?" Bindl frowned.

Katczinky shook his head. "No, they're a symptom. Paris is a rotten heap, letting things get this bad. Maybe Smilas has a point."

Sooner than he expected they stopped again, back into the indistinguishable pit of New Springfield. Bindl hopped out after a few enlisted men, waiting for Katczinky to struggle out of the vehicle in his heavy body armor, near the front entrance as he ordered. Something about getting back to his office before anyone else reported this situation, lest the regular army arrived in force.

Bindl turned to crack his neck, hearing a wet thump. Wrinkling his brow suddenly, he snapped over just in time to see Katczinky limply drop to the hot ground, the back of his head a bloody mess.

Another man would have called for a medic immediately. Instead he saw a boy turn to run, a young one in filthy clothes. Without thinking he shouted, "HALT!" and took off in a dead sprint. Slowed by the body armor, he crashed through multiple bystanders after the child, his surprising nimbleness not enough to escape Bindl snatching him by the hair.

Snarling and gasping, Bindl held onto the child as he tripped, landing in a heap with the squirming perpetrator trying in vain to escape. Here the armor helped, rendering his sharp blows and bites harmless.

"Let go of me you french fucker!" he snarled, almost escaping when Bindl recognized his voice. He wrestled himself upright with the teen in hand, wising up to the crowd starting to form around him.

"He attacked that child."

"That sonofabitch."

The other guards arrived, initially starting to help before forming up, facing down the growing crowd amassing from three sides. Not until Bindl was upright did a local constable shove her way through, recognizing her as that police woman from his last visit.

"Hey, what's going on here?" she barked, zeroing in on the glaring boy. "Blaze you little shit, what'd you do?"

"Ma'am, he-" Bindl started, grunting when he was head-butted by the teen.

"He's under arrest. He injured Major Katczinky." an MP declared with his baton in hand.

"Wait!" Bindl barked.

"Hold up, I'll take care of-" the police woman stepped forward with a raised hand, an act he saw was meant to diffuse the growing tension. What happened instead was the MP jerking forward, and in one smooth motion, one that he saw happen in slow motion, brought his baton down on her temple.

She dropped with a pained cry, leaking blood from the wound. There was a stunned silence for what seemed like an eternity, with the MP's angered expression morphing into wide eyed shock at what he did. The onlookers shared his feelings, the stilled boy held down, the refugees inhaling sharply, and most of all Bindl, feeling ice seep into his veins.

"You bastards!"

The dam broke. In the blink of an eye Bindl went from subduing a teenager to curling into a fetal position, covering his head and neck as best as he could. Punches, kicks, and blunt instruments battered at his body, a dozen people actively trying to pummel him to death. The body armor was his only defense, softening the blows just enough so to not be lethal, although he still felt plenty of pain. He snarled and cried out, but the shouting drowned out anything he said.

He was unaware of the passage of time, but however much passed, it did change. The raging shouts turned into screams, topped by steady thumps of projectiles being launched. The blows decreased, vanishing entirely. Then a choking gas filled the air, making him cough in pain, steaming tears at the gas surrounding him with no escape. He hacked and gasped even as a hand snatched at his arm and dragged him away, clamping a filter mask over his face that somehow made it worse. The screams became more distant, and when he heard a sharp crack he bolted up in surprise.

Dazed as he was, Bindl let himself be manhandled out of the hot daylight at last, weakly groaning when he was planted on an uncomfortable bench. He feebly protested someone trying to pry off his vest, too overcome by a rising wave of aching pain swallowing him.

Saying it wasn't as bad as being shot in the foot was technically true, if misleading. He hurt from everywhere, from his toes to his scalp, and everywhere in between. Internal, external, all over, he felt extremely tender; through the haze he dimly wondered if this was what ground sausage felt like. A prick on his wrist served to make the dimness worse, but fortunately it also reduced the stinging from his everything.

"Find... don't..." he groaned.

"Easy sir, you have six bone fractures and counting so far. You need to rest." someone told him, a figure he struggled to focus on. A medic he guessed.

He grunted as he sat up. "Major..."

"Still unconscious sir. Please, lay down." firm hands guided him down, withdrawing immediately after his head touched the bench.

Bindl wrinkled his bruised face, but the medic darted off before he could stop him. A gasp escaped him when he rose again, gripping his side when a deep inhale launched slivers throughout his torso. With the vest in the way he couldn't feel along his sides, but he guessed that at least two ribs were broken, likely more. Breathing was strained, he couldn't inhale too deeply from the sharp stabs in his chest. His vision was slowly clearing however, along with his hearing. He judged it as good enough.

"Owowahah." he regretted trying to stand immediately. His legs screamed in protest, creating a strange feedback loop of trying to get a deeper breath, only to gasp from his chest tightening up.

Gritting his teeth, Bindl maneuvered his body carefully, and with a strangled rasp he stumbled upright, almost tripping when his wobbling leg had other ideas. Gripping his thighs helped him regain his balance, taking a moment to just get some air in his lungs. When a rushing clerk halted to approach with arms outstretched he considered the offer; not without second thoughts he waved him off, limping towards the front desk.

He wasn't entirely sure where he was going at first; his bunk seemed like an attractive idea, even knowing that when he woke up he would wish to be like this again. But that was a petty thing really, feeling his head swim. He had to get a handle on the situation, in fact find out what the situation even was. Were things contained? Was the riot getting worse? If the regular army was on the way...

Someone breezed past him, striding up to the desk at a blistering march. He felt a stab of mixed pain and rather petty envy at her even stride, taking a moment to process that her green fatigues weren't EU standard.

"You, who is in charge here?" she demanded in heavily accented english to the overweight clerk, who shrank back from intimidation. "I'm from the IJA reserve formation, there's a riot in the Shin-Kanto zone. Don't just sit there." she snapped.

"I'm sorry ma'am, Major Katczinky is in the emergency care unit." the clerk struggled through his english, his beady gaze catching Bindl plodding up to him. "Uh, one of my superiors just arrived. He's right there."

"Finally, some answers for this-" clad in fatigues unsuited for the environment, Marimo Jinguuji turned around, blinking twice at the sight of him. Then her features wrinkled dangerously. "You're stalking me... what happened to you?"

Bindl just groaned, shambling to the side of the desk. Ignoring her questioning stare and the clerk's silent protest, he rested his back against the support and steadied himself, wincing at fresh spikes from his arms.

"Regretting, many things." he replied slowly.

"I can see that. Suppressing riots is dangerous work." Marimo noted dangerously. Bindl looked at her to protest, but he found that he couldn't disagree.

"I, I never wanted this. I didn't volunteer to be here, beating up people. Any of-" he gripped his shoulder pads and tugged, after a moment the torn straps gave way. With a sluggish toss he threw them to the floor. "This wasn't supposed to happen." he breathed slowly. Behind him a wall mounted television showing news chimed, though he didn't look.

"I agree." Marimo said evenly, arms crossed.

"I, was trying. Lord knows, I tried." More than pain motivated him to grip his face, groaning into his gloved palm.

"Then you can help me with my task. IJA command ordered me here when news came of a riot. They won't be happy to find you beating down our citizens." she warned. Then a trooper shoved his way past her, ignoring her formless protest.

"Things escalated-" Bindl looked up, only to pause. Marimo's face had changed immediately; her jaw was hanging open, eyes as wide as could be. A quiver rolled through her whole body before his eyes, fixated on something to his rear.

Groaning once more, Bindl turned to see a dozen men crowding the television, blocking half the screen. A banner along the top told him it was an emergency news bulletin, from the SDRE based on the red color; he considered their news more trustworthy than many of their rivals. Distantly he noted the clerks recoiling in shock.

"Sir, you need to see this." the overweight man bolted upright and snatched his monitor, forcing the flat screen display to twist around regardless of the cable's state. Frowning as Marimo leaned in immediately, she groaned as the clerk put up the news article.

"What's it say?" she demanded sharply.

"Its..." now it was Bindl's turn to gawk, features wrinkling in utter disbelief. "This... this can't be. The Britannian Third Army was stopped outside of Novosibirsk? Estimated, estimated..." pain was a factor in his mind being sluggish, but even clear headed he knew he would react the same. "Estimated two hundred thousand enemy casualties."

"The only thing that could do that is..." Marimo trailed off when a clip appeared, from a high building in Novosibirsk presumably. Civilian most likely, otherwise it wouldn't be hitting the airwaves so quickly. The hilly terrain outside the city was beset by recognizable formations, the Britannian army he assumed, which had run roughshod over the Russian army in Siberia for months now in the face of dogged resistance.

A bright flash momentarily overpowered the camera, but it cleared up in time to a shocking event: a blast wave seemingly bloomed outwards, a bright orange thing that momentarily resembled a new sun. It expanded in seconds, washing over the enemy army and seemingly erasing them from existence, growing and rising and darkening all the while. No more than a few seconds passed for the explosion, what he saw immediately had utterly eradicated an area dozens of kilometers in diameter and growing by the second, to start lifting into the air, supported by a thin tower of smoke in the center. Bizarrely the effect resembled a mushroom; a silly view that sucked any bemusement out of him.

Bindl remembered how to breathe, swiveling to see Marimo shocked, but not dumbfounded at all. "Is this... is this a G-bomb?"

"No, its-" she gulped. "It's a hydrogen bomb. That size, the yield must be, it's in the megaton range... those idiots. The Americans, why'd they-"

Bindl and Marimo jumped when the clerk's phone rang, him jolting as well over the rising shocked chatter before snatching it from its cradle. "Yes, this is- yes? Oh, uh... I see, he's right here."

Without hesitation he shoved the phone towards Bindl, who reluctantly took it to place by his ear, hands shaking. "Hello?"

"_Hi, Matty, buddy, my friend!_" greeted another voice he thought he wouldn't hear again.

"Ambassador Renard?" Bindl gawked.

"_How are you doing down there? Good? Good, great._'' Even in his state Bindl detected his cheer was utterly forced, the sound of his teeth grinding so loud he heard it over the phone. "_Listen, you may have seen something on the news. It's the big thing of the day._"

"Ambassador, why-" Bindl saw Marimo's confused look and shrugged.

"_It's big, really big. Like potentially a global crisis big. I need you in Paris by my side immediately. A plane is on the way already. Forget about luggage, get your butt here. I'll explain later._" the line clicked dead.


End file.
